Z is for Zyklon B
by Lisa Paris
Summary: Some wounds will never heal, some evils are never truly vanquished . . .
1. Chapter 1

_**

* * *

**_

_**Z is for Zyklon B**_

**_This eight chapter story began life as part of the Alphabet Challenge over on the Numb3rs Forum. _**

**Author: - **Lisa Paris

**Disclaimer: **I own no fractions, atoms or particles of Numb3rs. I _still_ really wish I owned Don.

**Summary: - **Some wounds will never heal - some evils are never vanquished. Based around the episode _'Provenance'_ using characters and issues it explored.

* * *

**_Z is for Zyklon B_**

_O, Earth, cover not thou my blood,_

_And let my cry have no resting place._

Job 16:18

* * *

_**Part One**_

It was late afternoon in Pasadena and the sun still shone in at the window. Leaf patterns made shifting shadows and dust motes danced on the air. The house smelled of old wood and layers of polish, a sharp hint of lavender and beeswax. It was all so beloved, so familiar to him. So redolent with recollections and memories.

Don stared at his open laptop with a sigh, and leaned his shoulders back against the chair.

It must have been the same for these people. The smiling faces in the black and white photographs. Their images frozen forever in time on small pieces of celluloid. Somehow, it made it more devastating, looking at all the lost faces. They were people with lives and loved ones – with all the petty accruals of existence.

_Real, they had been real._

People like him.

People like his family and friends, no longer just statistics on a page. They'd all had homes filled with memories; and personal histories, both good and bad. They'd had suitcases full of clothes and belongings, and pictures and treasured photographs. Their homes had been rich with all the trappings of life, and the pervasive and familiar scent of polish.

This was the whole intention, of course, and as a ploy it was highly effective. To inject some humanity into the statistics, and make the grimly fantastical, seem more valid.

As a number, six million was mind-boggling.

_Too large to comprehend, too vast._

When he'd clicked on the database for Shoah victims names, he hadn't expected the photographs. Or the pages of testimonials from bereaved family and friends. Most were brief, all were heartbreaking. Too many were barren of detail.

_Murdered at Auschwitz . . . died in the Warsaw ghetto . . . deported to the East and never returned . . . _

And too often, simply_, fate unknown._

For once, Don had taken the afternoon off. Or, more specifically, he'd seized an opportunity. He'd been in court most of the morning and things had finished sooner than he'd thought. Everything was reasonably quiet downtown, so he'd decided to make the most of it. He had something personal to go over. Some promises he needed to keep.

He was beginning to wish he hadn't bothered. That he'd caught up with a load of paperwork instead. It was all so – _so disturbing - _like the strands of a great spider's web; the horror of it slowly unravelling, with threads shooting off, left, right and centre. The sheer enormity of involvement challenged everything he'd thought about his country. The complicity, the downright collusion – _dear God, it made him feel sick. _None of it had made for comfortable reading, and by now, he felt splintered with emotion. The more he researched the subject matter, the more distorted and corrupt it became.

He read through the list of corporations again. Nearly all of them were well-known and familiar. Most of them were still trading today - household names, industrial giants. It was sickening - _no, better make that truly frightening_ - the way they had built up their assets. That those blood-stained, so-called _tainted_ _companies,_ were multi-million dollar concerns today.

He'd never known, never realised . . .

Don felt a sudden surge of revulsion. _Why hadn't they been brought to justice?_ Surely, when the war had ended, something ought to have been done about it?

_Someone should have been held to account. Someone should have been forced to pay. _

He'd put some specific music on earlier, hoping it would put him in the mood. The tempo evened out and softened, and a woman began to sing in a low voice. It was a heartbreaking combination of grief and sorrow. A Hebrew lament for the dead. Don closed his eyes for a second and let the poignant notes wash over him.

She sounded like blood and sadness.

_She sounded like loss and regret. _

"What's this?"

Don opened his eyes, and sat up a little straighter, as Alan entered the room. He'd been so wrapped up in melancholy, he hadn't even heard the front door. He forced himself back to the present, and gestured towards the computer. For some reason, he felt vaguely embarrassed, to be caught red-handed, wallowing like this.

"It's the soundtrack from Spielberg's _Munich. _Remember, we rented it last year? The massacre of the Israeli Olympic Team in 72, and how a gang of Mossad agents hunted down the perpetrators."

"I remember, it's beautiful. In Hebrew, isn't it? So very haunting and sad."

"Yeah." Don lifted the remote and switched the music off. "So sad, it's almost unbearable. I wanted to do a little research, and I thought it might help put me in the right frame of mind."

"Research?" Alan put down his bag of groceries, and came to peer over Don's shoulder. "Not that it isn't good to see you, my son, but I thought you were in court all day?"

"It was all over by lunchtime so I took the afternoon off. Thought I'd make the most of the peace and quiet, and do some work while the house was still empty."

Alan gave a kind of _harrumph_, but ignored any probable implication. "This research, can I ask what it's concerning, or is that some dark federal secret? And shorter and far more to the point, why do you need a Hebrew lament to put you in the right mood?"

Don sighed. "Last night, I had a call from Erika Hellman, you recall the stolen Pissarro case? She invited me around for supper, and I'm going over there later this evening. It kind of reminded me I made a few promises, promises I haven't had time to honour, and today seemed like the perfect opportunity to start putting the record straight."

"You've been back to see her several times since then. She must be one hell of a lady?"

Don swivelled sideways, and gave Alan a smile. "Right. She is. She most certainly is. Ever since we returned the Pissarro, she and I have become sort of friends. She went through so much, I respect her a lot. She has this kind of inner strength and dignity. Her grandson Joel's been in Europe on business, so I took her out to dinner once or twice."

"So," Alan gave a nod of perception. "This research you're doing – it's about the war, isn't it?"

"Yeah." Don paused. "You know, there's so much I didn't realise about allied corporate and government involvement. Good old Henry Ford, for example, both him and his son Edsel. Did you know they merged their assets with I G Farben, the German chemical company which manufactured _Zyklon B_? And good old Edsel remained on the board of directors even after the war had begun?"

"_Zyklon B?"_

"A cyanide based insecticide, or Prussic acid for short. When it's exposed to the air, the substrates evolve into gaseous hydrogen cyanide. As _Zyklon B_, it was made into pellets and packed into airtight cans. It was used to kill over one million people in the gas chambers of Auschwitz and Maidanek."

Alan gave a thoughtful inclination of his head. "Henry Ford was a well-known anti-Semite. Why do you think I always drove a Volvo? Now, your mother, she was passionate about it. She hated that 52 pick-up truck I inherited from my old site manager - used to call it that _'goddamned fascist machine.'_ Even though the war had been over for years, she was dead set against us owning a Ford. But it was back when you boys were pretty small; it was all we could afford at the time."

"Well, I hate to break it to you," Don's voice was wry. "But it wasn't just about the Ford. That V-dub, purple passion-bus, you guys used to own? Do you know how much enforced slave labour Volkswagen used during the war? Or that the company helped to make the **V1** rocket bombs which went on to kill thousands of Londoners?"

Alan gave a heavy sigh. "Our _purple passion-bus,_ as you so aptly call it? It does have a sole redeeming feature. You'd better thank your lucky stars we owned it – if we didn't, you wouldn't be here."

"Too many details," Don shuddered, theatrically. "_I was conceived in the back of a hippy bus?_ It's kind of funny-ironic, when you consider how I turned out."

"Yes," Alan rolled his eyes, but softened the blow, by patting Don fondly on the head. "Back then, who would have known it? Two free-thinking, anti-establishmentarians – and we produced our very own little Fed." His smile faded, and he studied Don more soberly. "Don't allow yourself to get too bogged down in this, son; the truth of it will only hurt you. Something was different, back in those days. There was real evil abroad in the world. Nothing can undo all the wickedness, and it's too late to change what happened. Just thank God, it's all over. That the good guys won in the end."

"Did they?" Don shook his head a little. He still felt rather depressed. "I hope so, I really hope so, dad, but when I read through today's statistics, I'm not too convinced about that. Attacks on Jews and Jewish properties have been hitting record numbers again - not just here, but all over the world. It seems like anti-Semitism is an evil that'll never go away." He sighed. "Anyway - I sent off a couple of emails to a friend of mine over in Israel. He has contacts who can access the Yad Vashem Archive Division – you know, the Holocaust Memorial in Jerusalem. If there's any information about your mom's cousin's family, then it's likely to be in the _Hall of Names_ records there. I feel kinda guilty I haven't done it before. I'm sorry I didn't get around to it."

Alan cleared his throat hurriedly and put a hand on Don's shoulder. "I know how busy you've been lately, Charlie and I rarely get to see you. This thing, well, it's already waited more than sixty years, I don't want you to feel under any duress."

"Hey, no duress," Don half-swivelled around in the chair, and gave Alan a smile of gratitude. "_This thing_ - it's all about family. You know, ever since the Pissarro case, I can't forget something Erika said to me. She said; _'family is our anchor to life – we lose it and we're adrift.'_ And this from a woman who lost both her parents, to say nothing of six brothers and sisters. I haven't asked about her extended family, but I'm pretty sure of the answer." Don lowered his eyes with a hint of discomfiture. He hoped Alan would understand. "What she said, especially coming from her, I guess it kinda struck a chord with me."

Alan was silent for a moment and then he surprised the both of them. He tightened his grip on Don's shoulder and bent over and gave him a hug. Although they'd always hugged from time to time, they weren't exactly a touchy-feely family. It made these moments all the more precious when they actually _did_ occur.

"It makes me so happy to hear you say this," Alan pulled away slowly. "There was a time, back before your mother got sick, when I wondered if we'd lost you for good."

"Nah," Don grinned, but his voice was husky. "Who, little old, bad penny, me? All you have to do to reel me in, is pop open a couple of cold ones. Throw a big juicy rib-eye onto the grill, and you've got me, hook, line and sinker."

"I think your brother would agree with you. In fact, he's worked out an algorithm for it. The increased probability you'll walk in through the door whenever we have steak for supper."

"Years of instinct and training," Don was glad things were getting back to normal. "And finely honed field abilities which allow me to detect you're having steak."

"Talking of which," Alan left the sentence hanging and waved his hand at the bulging grocery bag. "I'd better go put this meat in the refrigerator. And as for those abilities, finely honed, they may be . . . but as you're off to eat at Mrs Hellman's; _tonight, you missed out on the steak."_

**TBC**

* * *

**NB –** The Yad Vashem webpage's are inspiring and heartbreaking to read. Especially the _'Central Database of Shoah Victims' Names,' _which has photographs (click on the photo for the person's history) and gives brief testimonials.

There is a mass of widely available information about Henry Ford and I G Farben. And of course, all of the other so-called _'tainted companies'_ (many of them chemical and pharmaceutical) still making vast profits today. I don't purport to sit in any kind of judgement here – I'm merely stating some perhaps lesser known details. I do uphold the belief that all of the truths about the Holocaust – however dark and uncomfortable they may be – should never be diminished or forgotten.

The _'Munich'_ soundtrack is stunning. Lisa Gerrard (of _Gladiator_ soundtrack fame) sings a couple of laments on it which literally, make your hair stand on end.

Thanks for reading,

Lisa.

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

_**

* * *

**_

_**Thanks so much for your response to this story. Although the subject matter is close to my heart, it wasn't easy to write or research. I do appreciate your thoughts and reviews - **_

**_Lisa._**

_**

* * *

**_

_**Z is for Zyklon B**_

* * *

_O, Earth, cover not thou my blood,_

_And let my cry have no resting place._

**Job 16:18**

* * *

**_Part Two_**

Don arrived at the Hellman's house a little after seven thirty. He got out of the taxi at the end of the drive and walked up the long, private path. He took his time and didn't hurry. It was nice to be out in the fresh air. His mind still felt tainted, overcrowded and clogged up, with the research he'd done earlier today.

He'd left the SUV back in Pasadena. He didn't want to worry about drinking.

One of the nice things about eating at Erika's - she always served very good red wine.

It was an unsettled and overcast evening. The air was heavy with the promise of rain. Dour-coloured clouds scurried over the sky like dark grey harbingers of storm. Don paused on the wide veranda and frowned. Something was definitely out of synch here. A big bay window over-looking the lawns had been temporarily boarded up with planks of wood.

Instead of ringing the doorbell, Don walked across to examine it. He ran his hand over the panelling, his feet crunching on broken glass. It was hard to imagine how it might have happened. Until tonight, the weather had been balmy. There was no sign of building work or any other repairs being made to the front of the house.

He stepped back a little and looked around. It was then he saw the graffiti. In a weird way, it was a lightening strike of deja-vu, and it hit him like a physical assault. The words were scrawled in black spray paint, written over the wooden fascia board. Don flinched - he couldn't help it - even though the gut reaction angered him. It wasn't only the words which struck him, but the crudely drawn swastika below. Someone was being pretty specific here – their brutal intention was clear.

_Juden Raus_.

Two very, ugly words.

_Oh yeah, Don knew what they meant._

As fate, and a short day in court would have it, he'd spent the afternoon reading all about them.

_Juden Raus._ He felt frozen, his mind sifting through black and white images. The favoured saying of the Nazi brown shirts, in pre-war, 1930's Germany. Those two words had been used with impunity as they'd gone on their party-sanctioned rampages; terrorising Jewish people, and defacing Jewish property and homes. It all happened in the years leading up to the war, before the Holocaust had begun in real earnest. Most people had heard of Krystallnacht, but it hadn't been an isolated incident. The violence and wanton vandalism had become a regular and accepted occurrence.

In the end, it culminated in mass murder, of course. Not to mention the world's largest ever heist. Jewish bank accounts were stopped and seized by the state. Jewish homes and businesses were stolen. Oh yeah, it started out with money and assets, before they started pulling gold teeth.

_Jews out._

The words sliced through Don like a knife blade. They lit a sudden fuse of anger inside him. After everything Erika Hellman had been through, there was no way this should be happening again. And here – _here - _of all places, the country where she'd come to find safety. He'd be damned if he was going to stand back and allow this to carry on.

_Not to his friend and not on his watch. _

He would be angry about this at any time. It was both dangerous and disgusting. But today – after all the research he'd been doing, it felt like a personal attack.

_In a way it was_ – Don shook his head – _there was just no getting away from it. _

What was it bubbe Eppes always said?

_'In the end, blood will out.'_

So okay, his family wasn't observant, but their heritage had always been evident. If their immediate relatives had remained in Eastern Europe, he and Charlie probably wouldn't exist. The Nazi's had decimated Poland's Jews, murdering an estimated three million of them. At the end of the war, a mere six thousand had been all that remained alive.

Right here and now, on Erika Hellman's front porch, Don had never felt more Jewish in his life.

His finger had barely left the bell when Erika opened the door to him. She peered into the front garden, and then reached for his arm, before hurriedly steering him inside.

"Ah, Don, it's so good to see you. I was worried you might not be able to come, I know how busy you are."

"Erika," Don disengaged his arm and looked down into her frightened face. He needed some answers straight away, so didn't waste any time with preamble. "Won't you tell me what's happening, what's been going on here? The graffiti – why didn't you call me? You should have called me, like at once. Who's been doing this, who's been threatening you? Have you reported it to the police?"

"So many questions," she made a brave attempt to smile, but didn't quite pull it off. "Come – we'll go into the parlour and sit. I promise I'll tell you all about it."

It wasn't a very edifying story. Don's face grew grimmer as he listened. It turned out the window at the front of the house had been shattered by a brick. And that wasn't all, from what Don could see, it was all part of a studied reign of terror. A plan of bullying and intimidation, with an ugly, racist twist.

"It began with a series of phone calls – just after the newspaper article was published. You remember, the one about the picture, and Peyton Shoemaker's father."

"I remember."

The article had really got up his nose. Talk about purple prose. _And how the hell did the gutter press get hold of these things? _It sure beat the life out of Don.

They'd wrung out the angle of the provenance issue and totally trashed Shoemaker's father. According to the sensationalist writer, the implication was very clear. Peyton Shoemaker Senior, had been little better than a looter. At best, the man had been dim-witted. He'd been thoughtless and certainly naïve. The reporter had then gone a step further and implied he might have even been complicit. To finish it off, she had hinted he'd known of the painting's origins all along.

Whatever the truth of the matter, the whole thing had been quite outrageous. Aside from the Shoemaker issue, there was the interest and publicity it stirred up. The Hellman's safety had been placed at risk, and their insurance company had been furious. Because of a story in the tabloid press, the Pissarro was endangered, once again.

Quite understandably, Peyton Shoemaker had complained - Don had sympathised with him, in a way. The man had lost millions of dollars, and been investigated for insurance fraud. Even worse, despite his lawyers protestations, he had no claim on the real Pissarro. The slur against his father's integrity had come as the final straw.

He'd threatened the paper with legal action, and Don had kind of lost track of it after that. All the fuss had faded pretty quickly, as some brand new sensation came along. Although he'd always meant to follow-up the outcome, real life had intervened with a vengeance. A heavy caseload, and the whole Colby/Janus business, had taken him off in other directions. He'd assumed that, as all the dust had died down, Shoemaker must have received some kind of settlement.

"The caller didn't say anything." Erika continued with her story. "He would wait a few seconds, and then hang up. The calls usually came in the middle of the night. I always answered in case it was Joel. You know, the time difference from Europe, I was concerned that something might be wrong."

"You say they started when the article was printed? Did you report any of this to the police?"

She sighed, and threaded her hands together. "As you know, I never spoke to any journalists. The insurance company advised me against it. They told me it would draw attention to the painting and alert any possible art thieves." She turned to a small console at the side of her chair, and passed Don an envelope. "Yes, of course, I reported them to the police, and they said it was probably crank calls. Almost certainly random pranksters - nothing much to worry about. The caller never spoke to me, or used any threatening language, so there wasn't very much they could do. They suggested, that if it continued, I should contact my local phone company. Since then, the telephone calls have stopped, and these started to arrive in the mail."

Don took the envelope in silence. It contained some small rectangles of cardboard. His jaw tightened as he glanced over them, and a sudden chill ran through his heart. There were only four in total, cream-coloured, embossed business cards. Each card was printed with a single word, followed by a single letter. Don stared at them in revulsion and anger.

They simply said: **Zyklon B**

"I can tell by your face that you know what it is," Erika's voice trembled slightly. "What I don't understand is, why, after all these years, someone would be cruel enough to send them?"

Don didn't understand either. He was rigid with well-controlled fury. _How could anyone be so vindictive? _After everything he'd researched this afternoon, the product name filled him with despair. There was no excuse for this kind of maliciousness. No explanation for such irrational hatred. To terrorise a helpless old lady who had already suffered far too much.

Don could only assume it had something to do with that damned stupid newspaper story. A nasty side-effect of all the publicity surrounding the return of the Pissarro. To all intents and purposes, the painting hung over the mantelpiece, but in reality, to appease the insurers, the picture on display was a fake.

The real painting had been locked away again. It was safe in a bank vault downtown. Much to Erika's abiding sorrow; she'd been unable to keep it in her house. It had been deemed too much of a security risk and her insurers frankly wouldn't allow it.

_Especially_ since the story of its miraculous recovery had somehow been leaked to the Press.

In-spite of the fact, that after too many years, Erika had won a bitter-sweet form of justice, in a way, it was cruelly ironic. She _still_ couldn't have her Pissarro. It wasn't about the value of the painting, Don knew that only too well. As far as both Erika and Joel were concerned, the Pissarro had never represented money.

_A significant example of impressionist art. A beautiful, long-lost masterpiece._

Although those factors were of consequence to the art world, they held little importance to the Hellman's. It meant next to nothing in financial terms - small compensation for what they were owed. No - ever since the case had ended, Don had learned what the Pissarro symbolised. It was rightfulness and vindication, and in its own way, a form of freedom.

_The_ _sure_ _and_ _fiery_ _validity_ _of_ _Justice_ _and_ _her_ _flaming_ _sword_.

To Erika, the picture was worth so much more. The true value lay in its history. It lay in the wealth of nostalgia, and reminiscence of her old life it evoked.

In her painful, yet precious recollections, of a time when everything had seemed golden. Of the happy and chaotic days she'd spent with her brothers and sisters, playing childhood games in the shade of the trees, with the two little family dogs. The boating lake in the nearby park. The large house in the tree-lined _strasse._ The times her father had taken her up on his knee, and her mother had tucked her safely into bed.

Whenever she looked at the painting, it helped to trigger those long forgotten memories.

_The Pissarro was the only tangible link to everything she had lost. _

Don helped her to find an artist, and she had commissioned an excellent copy. It was someone he knew, as a matter of fact, from another closed case of his. _The one_ _with_ _the_ _counterfeit_ _dollar_ _bills_ _which_ _had_ _brought Kim_ _Hall_ _back_ _into_ _his_ _life_. Margo Hughes, the kidnapped artist they'd saved, had stayed on in Los Angeles with her husband. Don knew from personal experience, she was both accomplished and very discreet. She'd painted a replica of the Pissarro, which in its way, was the next best thing.

His gaze drifted over to the painting and he was filled with a sense of revulsion. He didn't know why this was happening yet, but he was sure as hell going to find out. And then, whoever was behind this campaign of hatred, would wish they had never been born.

Before they sat down to supper, he had a few urgent phone calls to make.

"And you never caught a glimpse of anyone outside? He gave Erika his best reassuring smile and encouraged her to continue. "How about when they smashed the window, were you in the house at the time?"

"The window was only smashed last night. I called you immediately afterwards. By the time I got to the front door, there was no sign of anyone outside. I rang the police and they took down all the details. I didn't show them the cards. It isn't that I don't trust them, but there's only so much they can do." She paused, and looked up at him with troubled eyes. "Don, I - _this_ is starting to frighten me. I'm sorry, I know you're busy, but I wondered if you might help?"

"Of course I'll help. You know I will," Don reached for her hand and secured it in his own. He was dismayed to find it was trembling. "But we still have to file a report on this. The cards, the intimidation, it all qualifies as a hate crime. Someone out there has targeted you. I think you need to call Joel."

"I will." She nodded quietly in agreement. "At first, I didn't want to worry him, it seemed wrong to upset him with such problems. I know he'd fly straight back from London even though it's such a long way to come. But the broken window, all that shattered glass, it reminded me – it reminded me of Krystallnacht. I don't want him to be away from me right now. I think he should be at home."

"Good girl," Don lifted her frail hand to his lips and placed a light kiss on the back of it. "I tell you what, why don't you call him right now? I'll fix us both a drink while I'm waiting, and make a few calls of my own."

"Don," she held him back for a second. "Thank you. Thank you for doing this. I knew from the first time I saw you. You have, in the Yiddish, _ein gooteh neshumeh_. A good soul and a sensitive heart."

"Just don't say that to anyone I work with," Don felt pleased but a little embarrassed. He prayed she would never repeat the words. He could just see the look on Granger's face. "Especially not to any members of my team. Don't want them to think I'm going mushy on them. I have a reputation to maintain."

Erika shook her head at him. It was clear she didn't believe him.

_Trouble was,_ Don thought, ruefully, _neither did the folk on his team._

He was happy to see her smiling once more, and relieved she had relaxed a little. Yet again, he was struck by her dignity.

_This was one special lady. _

He got to his feet while she picked up the phone, to afford her a modicum of privacy. By now, he knew his way to the kitchen, and if he didn't, then his nose would have guided him. There was a tantalising smell of slow cooked brisket, and a richer, more exotic scent of spices. The evocative fragrance of the mysterious East, cinnamon, nutmeg and cloves.

Don remembered the smell from his childhood. It meant cholent, he would bet his life on it. He smiled and gave an appreciative sniff; _oh yeah, that smelled pretty good._ His stomach gave an answering rumble of happy anticipation.

For such a feast, he could forego dad's ribeye. Or at least, on this one occasion.

He recalled Alan's words from earlier - how he'd teased him about the steak. And despite the seriousness of the circumstances, the thought conjured up a small grin. He would pull dad's leg later on, when he got home. Let him know he had some serious competition. Alan took life pretty intensely when it came to the whole cooking vibe. And as for the cholent, it was one of dad's favourites; he and Erika would get on very well.

There was an uncorked bottle standing ready on the counter. Don picked it up for a second, and read the label with frank appreciation. It was a very good Saint Emilion, and he was glad of his decision not to drive. As always, when he came here for supper, he could count on a truly excellent red wine. He got out two long-stemmed glasses and flipped open his cell to call Megan.

The display lit up and then faded again.

_Damn – he wasn't getting a signal._

Don went on to try it several more times before giving up in disgust.

It was the storm, perhaps, or maybe the trees. They were up on the edge of the canyon. Of all the times to be incommunicado – this was _so_ not one of the best.

He picked up the bottle and the glasses. He would have to use Erika's house phone. Better get this done and dusted, and out of the way, before they sat down to eat. He wanted Megan in on the picture, and then he would speak to Gary Walker. The man was a walking encyclopaedia on the gangs in the Los Angeles area. If there'd been any recent rumblings in the neo-Nazi community, then maybe Walker could enlighten him. The cop had an uncanny ear to the ground. It was a good bet he might know what was going on.

He made it as far as the hallway before the hairs on his scalp began to prickle. There was something which made him hesitate – a scuffling noise outside the front door.

Don placed the wine down carefully, and reached automatically for his Glock. He cursed when his hand came up empty. _Of course, he hadn't worn it tonight._ It was locked up, back at the Craftsman, out of common courtesy to Erika. Unsurprisingly, and quite understandably, she had a morbid terror of guns.

A surge of anger crashed over him again. More pure rage than he'd felt in a long time. A fusion of past and present injustices refuelled by the reading he'd done. If those morons were out there, intent on no good, then they'd chosen the wrong time to resurface. They were about to find out what zero tolerance meant, and take a one-way journey downtown.

Don took control of his breathing. He needed to stay calm about this. It wouldn't do to be too gung-ho and screw things up for Erika now. He couldn't go charging out through the door and scare the pants off some innocent. The police might have come back to check on things - it might be the neighbour's cat. Or just some poor _schlub_ making a delivery who hadn't planned on having a coronary tonight.

So maybe he was being hypersensitive.

_Better hypersensitive than sorry._

Don stopped short on his side of the door and strained his ears to listen. Typically, now he was trying, he couldn't hear anything at all. The sky was indigo with scudding clouds, and damp with the first scatter of raindrops. The weather had clearly worsened, and was blowing up for the threatened storm.

Perhaps the only noise he'd heard was the sound of the wind through the trees? But in light of everything he'd seen and been told, Don wasn't prepared to risk it.

If they'd returned to frighten Erika some more, they were expecting her to be all alone.

He had a moment of sudden disquiet. Perhaps he should have driven after all? You couldn't get a much better deterrent than a government issued SUV.

_Yeah, he truly should have driven. _Don frowned, as the thought occurred to him. He _so_ didn't like where this was going. If there really _was_ some small-time bully outside, then the truck would have scared him away.

_Nope – he wasn't liking this. _

His feeling of uneasiness quickened. The Hellman's house was very private, a long way back from the road. The grounds were large and the frontage swept down with vast lawns surrounded by trees. There were high iron gates and ornamental walls - the nearest neighbours were similarly appointed. There was no chance of being over-looked, the isolation was total. No wonder Erika was frightened, she was cut off and vulnerable here.

It was typical of his damn cell phone to quit. He tried it again for good measure. He hoped the signal had repaired itself, but it stayed uncompromisingly dead.

_What he wouldn't give to talk to Reeves right now? _

Don undid the sturdy locks as quietly as he could, and pushed the door a couple of inches. His field of vision was fairly restricted, so he was forced to open it wider still.

He was slammed back against the wall so violently, that the cell spun out of his hand. Two men forced their way into the house before he could make a sound. He fought back, but they had the advantage. One of them was built like a wrestler - either that, or a monster truck. The front door was made of solid oak, and Don was already pinned into a corner. He was trapped between the **V** of the hinges and the parquet-floored angle of the hallway. A battery of punches forced him sideways and his feet began to slip out from under him. In spite of the difficulty, he fought blindly, and landed a few good hits himself.

_He had to get out of the corner._

Right now, he was a sitting duck. If he didn't escape from the restricted space, he was dead meat, no doubt about it.

He lunged forward like a drunken Billy goat and rammed his head into the closest attacker. The man gave an_ oomph_ of agony as Don's skull connected with his groin.

As moments of satisfaction went, it was destined to be pretty short lived. The speed and momentum of his movement had thrown him wildly off balance. A heavy boot caught him in the rib-cage. It was followed by another and then another.

Don felt something hitch and give way in his chest as his face slapped against the stone floor. It was a foregone conclusion after that. There was nothing he could do about it.

A cold nudge at the side of his temple, and he looked up into the muzzle of a gun.

**TBC**

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

_**

* * *

**_

_**Z is for Zyklon B**_

* * *

_O, Earth, cover not thou my blood,_

_And let my cry have no resting place._

Job 16:18

* * *

_**Part Three**_

Everything around him ground to a halt, and Don forced himself to stay still. He could sense his attacker's uncertainty as the man tried to decide what to do. One wrong move, one hasty action - the guy was hyped up enough to squeeze the trigger. If Don didn't play his cards right, he was going to end up dead. The man's grip on the gun was unsteady. _Booze or drugs, if Don had to guess._ There were beads of sweat on his forehead and the Sig Sauer shook in his hand.

Don knew from previous experience that this was the most dangerous time. The next few seconds were vital for both him and Erika.

_Their lives were poised on the line. _

He kept his mouth shut, and tried to marshal his thoughts. It was easier said than done. He felt muzzy and his ears were ringing like bells from all the blows he'd received to the head.

There were two of them, just as he'd initially thought, and they looked pretty much as he'd expected. Bullish, white, and shaven-headed, their arms covered in racist tattoos. The monster truck estimate had not been far out. Both men were just a little short of huge.

_Definitely not frequent flyers_ – Don thought a trifle sardonically. Between the two of them, they had enough piercings to set off an airport alarm.

He'd seen their kind plenty of times before. They were your standard _rent-a-thug_, neo-Nazis. The foot soldiers, the window-breakers, always available when any muscle was required. They usually hung around on the fringes of the white supremacist groups.

Oh yeah, he'd seen their kind before – they might be dangerous if they possessed a brain. It was obvious they were only the monkeys.

_So who the hell was the organ-grinder?_

Someone had obviously hired these guys to frighten and intimidate Erika, and even though he was in deep trouble, Don desperately wanted a name. But right now, his problem was more immediate. He had to figure out a way of staying alive. He and Erika were short on alternatives, unless he could do some pretty quick thinking, but his options were limited as far as he could see. There were only two avenues open to him.

He could stay quiet, and pray they would leave him alone, or he could try to frighten them away.

_Yeah, okay, so the latter was ironic_. After all, he was the one on the ground. But he still had his ID wallet on him and that might be enough to do the trick. If they thought they'd assaulted a Federal Officer, then hopefully, they'd get the hell out of here. Physical assault and a home invasion - the charges were piling up by the minute. It was a whole different ballgame to spray can graffiti and frightening little old ladies.

With any luck, they'd hightail it off down the road. They probably hadn't expected any trouble. Get cold feet, and get the hell out of here, as fast as their little Nazi legs could go.

_He shouldn't have opened the front door._

Wisdom always came easier with hindsight.

"Godammit," the man with the Sig kicked the front door closed. He turned to his still-gasping companion. "Jay, better go find the old lady. Hurry-up – go deal with the phone." He turned back to Don, a sneer on his face, as he patted him down none too gently. "So, tough guy, how does it feel down there? And who in the hell are you?"

"Looks like you just got your answer," Don grunted, as the man pulled out his wallet.

_Damn, but it really hurt him to talk._ His chest gave another hitch of pain. He took in some air and tried a cautious breath. He was definitely a little dented around the edges. It felt like some ribs might be broken – or maybe someone had set fire to his chest.

_He decided to go with the scaring them off thing. It wasn't like he had a whole lot of choice._

"Go ahead, read it, why don't you? Congratulations, meat-head, you just pointed a gun at a Fed."

Okay, this was the moment of truth. Don closed his eyes, and held his breath for a second; and it wasn't just because his ribs hurt. He was frantic with worry about Erika and what these two idiots would do to her. If they chose to take him out of the picture, there was no way they'd leave her alive. It was bad enough he'd allowed this to happen at all. She was elderly, frightened and vulnerable. On a scale of one to ten, things weren't looking too bright for either one of them right now.

"Jesus Christ, a fucking Fed. We got ourselves a Fed."

"What you've got is a whole lot of trouble." It gave Don a shade of satisfaction to hear some panic edge into the man's voice. It was obvious they hadn't banked on any of this, so he decided to rub it in a little. "What you've been doing to Mrs Hellman – see, that qualifies as a hate crime. You tell me who put you up to this, and we might cut some sort of deal."

"A Fed," the man repeated the words to himself, as though Don hadn't even spoken. He shook his head over and over, and the Sig Sauer wavered in his hand. "He said this was gonna be a pushover. Just some old Jewish woman and her grandson. He said the place was full of easy pickings - never said a word about no Feds."

"Who said?" Don croaked - he ignored the discomfort - and watched the gun uneasily. "Come on, tell me who said it? At the moment, you're up on a 442 and a non-violent - " _(He crossed his fingers, and discounted the pain in his ribs - so, he was bending the truth a little )_ " - home invasion. Don't turn this into anything more serious, it'll be better if you tell me who hired you. He's the man I'm really after. Just give me the name and get out of here, before the rest of my team arrive."

"Shut up - shut your stinkin' mouth."

Don was cuffed, none too gently, around the side of the face. _So much for the non-violent thing._ After his initial flood of panic, it looked like _Meathead_ had arrived at some decision.

"I gotta think. Gotta decide what to do. Gotta get us outta this mess. On your feet – come on - get up on your feet. In there with the old lady."

Don got to his feet.

_It wasn't easy._

For a moment, the world tilted on its axis. His left side felt like a bag of broken china; beyond doubt, he'd fractured one or several ribs. Every attempt at a passable breath, and he could almost feel them rattling in his chest. He was acutely aware of the gun in his face. Right now, they were balancing on a knife edge. These guys were in a state of near panic, which most definitely, did not bode well.

It was up to him to keep things calm. Or, as calm as they could be, under the circumstances. He needed to maintain a handle on this.

_It was his job to keep Erika alive. _

This sounded pretty good in theory. In practise, it was not quite so straightforward. He had no cell-phone, no gun, and no back-up. No cavalry to charge in and save the day. He did, however, have one weapon. He was cooler and smarter than their captors. They'd clearly come here to rob and terrorise, with no intention of getting caught. The whole thing had really thrown them a loop and now they were way off their game.

Of course, Don was realistic about it. This very point could also work against them. Men like this didn't want any witnesses. _Why the hell had he opened the front door?_ Now that he'd caught them red-handed, they might decide he was better off dead.

And if so, where did that leave Erika?

Nowhere that resembled a good place.

Meathead prodded the gun in his kidney and he stumbled across the hallway. For a second, he considered taking his chances again, but pain and a dose of common-sense prevailed. It would be better to see how this was going to play out - better to be the victims of a robbery. It was still way too volatile and up in the air to risk doing the dead hero thing.

He looked over at Erika, and held her gaze steadily, the second he was pushed through the doorway. Even though she was pale and patently scared, he was glad to see she also seemed angry. It only confirmed what he already knew. This was one classy lady. It took more than a couple of brain dead thugs to frighten a trooper like her. He felt a rush of admiration and affection, and shot her a reassuring smile. Her defiance and incredible bravery merely served to increase his determination.

They were going to get out of this.

_She was going to get out of this. _

He was not going to let these thugs hurt her.

She sat upright on the corner of the sofa, the other man – _Jay_ – standing over her. He'd ripped the telephone out of her hand, and Don wondered if she'd got through to Joel. She noticed the unspoken question in his eyes, and nodded her head imperceptibly. Don felt a sudden flash of optimism.

_Maybe there was still a little hope. _

"She was making a call when I got in here." Jay looked across at his partner. "She started on crying and calling for help before I could get the phone away from her."

"Old bitch." Don's captor turned on Erika. He was shaking with adrenalin and rage. "Who was it – who were you calling? Don't mess with me, lady, tell me, now!"

"She was on the phone to my partner," Don quickly deflected his anger. "I dialled the number and told her to get some help when I heard you two bozos outside."

"Who asked you?"

Don received another ringing blow for his pains. He was getting a little tired of it. He closed his eyes, and prayed Erika would play along, as he stumbled down onto one knee. If young Adolf here, thought the FBI was on its way, maybe discretion would be the better part of valour.

"Look," he decided to risk it. "Let's not do anything stupid. Don't go making things worse for yourselves. You can leave before they arrive. Just tell me who put you up to this. Tell me, and then get the hell out of here. This ends now, if you give me a name. We won't bother coming after you."

"_I said_, shut up!"

_Dad was right all along,_ Don thought, ruefully,_ he'd_ _never known when to keep his mouth shut._ Young Adolf, or Meathead, as he'd dubbed him, clearly got his rocks off on this. He tasted a sudden rush of warm salt as the next blow split his lower lip open. He lurched forwards, and a spurt of bright blood sprayed out over the blue Persian rug. For a moment, the world swung around him as he slid down the side of a chair. His vision dissolved into pinpricks of light, as stars clamoured and burst in his head.

_No way_ – Don pulled himself together - _he better not allow himself to lose it. _He wasn't going to leave Erika alone with them, vulnerable, and entirely at their mercy.

Meathead was right in his face again. So close, Don couldn't escape his breath. Booze, and something sharper, more acidic. He wrinkled his nose at the smell. What were the words of that old _Jam_ song again? The one about the Tube Station at midnight?

'_They smelt of pubs, and Wormwood Scrubs, and too many right-wing meetings . . .' _

It was ludicrous, he was probably going to die here, but the lyrics still ran through his head. The Jam were singing about the British version of Meathead and his little friend Jay. Don fought to get his eyes back in focus, and tried to concentrate on the gun. The way Meathead was waving it around in the air made him feel distinctly uncomfortable.

"Don't make me use this," Meat saw him watching the Sig and jabbed him a couple of times with it. He was clearly enjoying the sadism and the rush of pseudo-power it gave him.

Don tried hard to remain unresponsive. He prayed the safety catch was still on. For the first time, he noticed the other man's eyes. The pupils were tight and constricted. Just when he thought things couldn't get any worse, he realised he was right about the drugs.

And if Meat was jacked, it stood to reason Jay was. It was probably how they stoked up their hostility. Both men were violent and obviously on edge - aggressive and way too nervy. Don was betting on street-cut PCP, or maybe their hero's favourite, crystal meth.

It was just another bizarre fact he'd discovered, during the course of his earlier research. It wasn't all that common knowledge, but good old Adolf had been a crack whore. From 1942 until his death in the Berlin bunker, the Nazi leader had received daily intravenous injections of crystal meth, or _methamphetamine,_ from his personal physician, as a treatment for depression and fatigue. Don had shaken his head with incredulity - it had certainly explained a few things.

In fact, the Nazis had liked their amphetamines. They'd distributed them freely to their military. Treating the drug as a kind of reward, especially to elite tank and air crew. Chocolates dosed with methamphetamine were known as _Fliegerschokolade_ when handed out to the _Luftwaffe_, or _Panzerschokolade_ when given to tank crews. They kept the men fearless and aggressive - fanatical and ever-awake.

_Oh, this was just great, _Don cursed inwardly. Two whacked out, jacked up neo-Nazis. The whole thing kept getting better and better. It meant any attempt at rationality had just winged it out of the window. He couldn't count on the two men acting reasonably - if he ever could in the first place. Whichever way around he looked at it - the situation kept on getting worse.

"Take it easy, man. Let's play this cool," he kept his voice low and even. He had to try and stay on top of this. One slip up, one moment of panic, and he and Erika would be toast. "Let's not to do anything crazy."

_Who the hell was he kidding?_

Like the two men weren't already crazy. It was kind of what crystal meth did to you. Turned your mind into something from _Dante's Inferno,_ shrank your neurones, and scrambled your brains. Meat's eyes darkened, as he levelled the gun, and Don knew he was wasting his breath. _This was it, then._ The irony wasn't lost on him. Not after everything he'd been reading. It felt like fate had played a cruel trick on him, and was laughing at his expense.

Don stared defiantly up at Meat and waited for the man to pull the trigger.

"Stop it. Please, stop it!" Erika cried, in distress. "I beg of you, please don't hurt him. I have money and some valuable jewellery. Just take it, and get out of here."

Her words seemed to shake some sense into him, and Meathead lowered the gun. He got back to his feet and looked at Jay, then gestured towards the phone. "There's an easy way to settle this. Why don't you just press ring back. Let's find out if he's telling the truth."

Jay didn't appear to be in very good shape. He was jumpy and visibly sweating. He hesitated before dialling the numbers and kept glancing across at the door. "Listen, man, I don't like this. Maybe he's right, we should get outta here. We oughta leave before the Feds get here. Get out while we still can. You heard what she said – she's got money. Let's grab it before things heat up."

_Yeah, listen to him, why don't you?_

Don's heart sank, as he waited uneasily. He'd never had much luck with telling lies. What was it dad always said when they were kids? _Tell the truth, or_ _your sins will find you out._ He really should have been more careful and listened to Alan's advice. He had a feeling that when Jay dialled ring-back, things were going to turn nasty again.

"It's some hotel in London, England."

Don's worse fears were realised - for a moment, he cursed the Phone Company. He glanced over at Erika in silent apology; they had been well and truly caught out. He stumbled to his feet and shrugged his shoulders. _God, but his ribs really hurt._ He was probably going to get more of the same, and that was if he was lucky.

"Hey, she must have finished the call, and _then_ dialled the London number."

"Know what?" There was a knowing smirk on Meat's face. "Somehow, I just don't believe you. They're always sayin' the government lies to us. You lyin' to me now, Fed?"

"No, he's not." Erika spoke up before Don could answer. She stood, and faced Meat, defiantly. "Help truly _is_ on the way."

"Shut up," Meat turned on her in an instant. He forced her back down onto the sofa. "Like I'd believe a single word you said. _You people_, lying comes easy. You're known for being two-faced and underhand. You think you can get away with anything - this country's being ruined by your kind."

"What _kind _is that?"

Don knew he shouldn't - _really shouldn't_ - answer back. _Talk about just plain stupid. _It was like begging Meat to vent a little more rage, but somehow, he couldn't help himself. He was flooded with a blinding surge of anger. A cold fire of the purest fury. It was a culmination of all the trauma and stress and the imprint of his earlier research. _God, after everything he'd read today._ He could hardly believe this was happening.

_Now he knew, first hand, what it felt like._

He knew a little of what those people had gone through. Persecuted, and in too many cases, murdered. All because of an accident of birth.

He paid for the words. Just like he knew he would. It was all becoming somewhat predictable. The next blow caught the side of his head and the world started reeling again. Somehow, he ended up on the floor. He wasn't all that sure how he got there. He braced himself for the boot that followed, and turned his face into the carpet.

_Well, whaddya know, it was the blue Persian rug._

He felt like they were on intimate terms, he was beginning to know it quite well. By now, he could recall the weave and patterns - in-fact, they were becoming old friends. He really hoped it wasn't a precious antique, and that it could withstand a good dry-cleaning.

_Judging by the number of blood-stains, it was going to need one pretty soon._

"You know the kind of vermin I mean. Looks like you're one of them, _Fed." _Meat stood over him, red-faced and shouting. He swept a lamp off one of the side-tables, and it shattered in a shower of glass. "Kikes, Yids and filthy Jews, _your kind_ always stick together. Like rats, over-running the neighbourhood - you always look out for your own. Jay, go take the old woman upstairs. Looks like we got more time than we thought. We want jewellery and any cash you can find. I'll just bet she has plenty stashed away."

"Don, are you all right, can you hear me?" Erika called to him, frantic with anxiety. "No - I refuse to go upstairs. I won't go until you stop hurting him. Please – take anything you want in the house. Just promise me you'll leave him alone?"

"It's okay."

Don took advantage of the momentary distraction, and struggled back onto his knees. He wondered about the look she'd given him, when she'd emphasised that help _was_ on the way. Perhaps she'd got through to someone else, or maybe Joel had heard the commotion. Right now, he didn't care, he wasn't fussy. He only prayed they'd get here soon.

_If he could just keep her safe until the cavalry arrived. It was the best he could hope for or do. _

"Don - " Erika was uncertain.

"_I'm _okay." He qualified the statement, even though it was patently untrue.

"What you gonna do?"

Jay turned to Meathead. He was pale and his hands were shaking. Even though he had been the quieter one so far, Don didn't like the way he was behaving. He was strung out and clearly unhappy, as he hustled Erika over to the door.

"Me?" Meat gestured towards the phone. "Seeing as the Fed's _ain't_ comin', I'm gonna make me a call. _He _owes us – he can clean up this mess - ain't no way we're going down for this. We'll see what he says when_ his_ neck is on the line. _I'm betting he don't want any witnesses."_

**_TBC_**

* * *

**NB –** The song lyrics; _'they smelt of pubs and Wormwood Scrubs, and too many right-wing meetings . . .'_ come from _'Down in the Tube Station at Midnight'_ by the English band, The Jam. 

Wormwood Scrubs is a men's prison in London.

Lisa.

* * *


	4. Chapter 4

_**

* * *

**_

_**Z is for Zyklon B**_

* * *

_O, Earth, cover not thou my blood,_

_And let my cry have no resting place._

Job 16:18

* * *

_**Part Four**_

Drifting . . . he was aware he'd been drifting. It was so easy to succumb to the temptation. It was better by far, to float away on the tide, than to grapple with the pain of waking up. Don shifted uncomfortably and took a deep breath. He regretted it almost immediately. Something seemed to grate inside his ribcage, and his lungs felt as though they were on fire. He opened his eyes slowly and pushed himself up. He was lying with his back against the sofa. There was something soft and plush underneath him.

_It was his old friend, the blue Persian rug._

_They really would have to stop meeting like this, or_ _people_ _were_ _going_ _to_ _start_ _talking_.

For a moment, it all swam in soft-focus. The darkened room and his impression of events. He half-lay where he was, and stayed very still, and tried hard not to jolt his head. Eventually, his vision began to clear. _So, maybe clear was a trifle optimistic._ At least the furniture no longer swayed up and down, as though he was on board a boat deck.

Jay had taken Erika upstairs. _Oh, yeah, his memory was returning._ This had left him and Meat all alone in the lounge – and Meat had taken generous advantage. He'd gone down in a barrage of blows and kicks. To be blunt, Meat had beaten the crap out of him. The man had gone seriously psycho, clearly happy to have his own Jew to bait. Don tried to take stock of his aches and pains. The catalogue was growing longer by the minute. His face felt distinctly lop-sided, and like the rest of him, way off-base.

He wondered if his jaw was broken, and ran his tongue over his teeth. _Could_ _be_ _worse_ - _could_ _be_ _a_ _helluva_ _lot_ _worse_. Don sent up a silent prayer. They were loose, and one of his caps was gone, but at least they were still intact.

_However meagre, it was something_. He had a kind of phobia about the dentist. Marathon Man syndrome, dad called it. _It_ _was_ _ironic_, _in_ _light_ _of_ _events_. But, maybe when he got out of this one, he wouldn't have to spend too much time in the chair. _When he got out of this one -_ Don thought, ruefully. He pondered his choice of words. Talk about looking on the brightside, at least no one could accuse him of pessimism. The truth was, if he was honest, the chances were looking mighty slim.

_Dad and the thing about telling lies? _

Your sins, _hell,_ they _always _caught up with you.

Once Meat found out he'd lied about the phone call, they had jumped up and bitten him on the ass.

It was hard to take a beating at the wrong end of a gun. No good for the pride _or _the ribcage. In a way, the pain hurt less than the resentment - especially if you liked to play it tough. On his own, he would have risked chancing the odds, but not when he had Erika to think of. She had to be his priority and her safety was paramount.

He wondered how long he'd been out of things. By now, it was dark outside. He could hear the wind and the lash of the rain as the storm rampaged through the sky. As metaphors went, it was appropriate. The bad weather was certainly in keeping. The elemental ferocity and fury seemed to echo the rage which stalked the night. _Or maybe not._ Don found he was shaking. With cold or shock, he wasn't quite sure. The maelstrom outside was pure and natural, while the hatred here, inside the house, was not.

The situation both terrified and baffled him. He wasn't ashamed to admit it. It was hard to believe he'd sailed blythly through life, untouched by such venom, until today. Oh sure, he wasn't oblivious. There'd been a few hints and signs over the years. A little word here, the odd look there. The _'is there anything you can't eat?' _kind of question. And then there was Danny Wilson - the freakishly, over-sized scourge of fifth grade.

_How the hell could he forget Danny Wilson? _

Once encountered, never forgotten, in a psychotic, _Pugsley Addams_ sort of way. Danny had been a real peach of a boy. _Deviant_ didn't really cut it as an adjective. But now, with the benefit of hindsight, all that hatred must have started out at home.

He'd had plenty of run-in's with _Pugsley _Wilson, but there had been one particular furore. His accusation in religious education that Don Eppes and his kind had killed Christ.

It was strange how your memory played tricks on you. Don had another random flashback. It might have been due to getting hit on the head, but several things were coming back to him now. Aunt Irene, drinking tea with his mother; explaining why she never wore a Star of David. A friend of hers had been viciously attacked one day, when boarding a crowded bus. A total stranger had noticed her necklace and launched a tirade of abuse.

_So yeah, it had always been out there._

Maybe he'd been too blind to see it. Or perhaps he hadn't wanted to acknowledge it.

_The evil waiting on the edge of darkness. Always lurking, just out of sight._

There was no sign of the cavalry yet. Maybe he'd misread the signs. Got the wrong end of Erika's unspoken message, or perhaps it had been wishful thinking.

_How the hell was he going to get them out of this?_

It was the ten million dollar question. He felt about as sturdy as a paper cup. The last beating had been pretty severe. There was no longer any doubt about it - a few of his ribs were surely broken. It hurt him to breathe, let alone stand up. Much more of this, and he'd be good for nothing.

_Much more of this, and he'd be lucky to survive. _

He could see now. _Or at least, better than before._ Don thanked the lord for small mercies. His vision had steadied somewhat, and settled into an excuse for acuity. It was okay as long as he concentrated, but the slight blur was clearly here to stay. He saw the room through a fuzzy halo - it was like staring through a frosted glass window. However much he blinked, or tried to squint it away, the world was ringed in a nimbus of light. It wasn't really all that surprising. May as well face up to the inevitable. He'd been concussed on more than one occasion – more times than he cared to remember.

He recognised the symptoms well enough by now, to accept he was in big trouble.

It didn't help that the lights were switched off, and the room was in semi-darkness. He supposed it must be intentional, rather than as a result of the storm. There was a thin strip of yellow coming in from the hallway. It was barely enough for him to see by. It would make things a whole lot more difficult, if by any chance, his team _was _outside.

Something wet ran down the side of his face, and dripped off his chin, onto the carpet. He scrubbed at it with the heel of his hand. It was blood of course, sticky and red.

_There was plenty more where that came from._

Voices, he could hear voices. They were strident and raised in anger. It was obviously the reoccurring theme of the day – maybe that's what had prised him awake. They were shouting full on at each other now. No restraints, no holds barred. Don strained his ears to listen, the row was going on out in the hallway. One of the protagonists was Meathead, but he wasn't yelling at Jay.

"You owe us, man, you got an obligation. We need money to get us out of this shit."

"This wasn't supposed to happen - what the hell were you thinking of?"

"We didn't have no choice. He came right out and caught us. We thought he was the old lady's grandson. You said there would be no problem, we didn't know he was a stinkin' Fed."

"I told you, no confrontations. You were only supposed to scare her. You should have made sure the house was empty. You should have waited, and _then_ broken in."

"Don't fuck with us – _you better not fuck with us._ Things have gone way beyond that now. You hired us to do your dirty work, and frighten the old lady. That's a Fed in there, think he's after us? He wants you – the person behind it. Things have crossed the line, they've gone too far. Too goddam late to try and chicken out of it."

Don didn't like the sound of that much, but unfortunately, he agreed with the deduction. The whole world was constricting in on him, and for a moment, he felt claustrophobic. Events were rolling downhill like a snowball. They had moved way beyond the pale. There was only one outcome as far as he could see, and right now, that was not a great distance. The alternatives were narrowing, shrinking. Getting smaller and smaller by the second. If things went on moving at this rate, he would have to play the odds after all.

In comparison to just sitting here, and waiting to die, it seemed like there was nothing left to lose.

He was stricken with a strange sense of deja-vu. Life seemed to have swung around full-circle. As though the pages of research he'd read earlier, had suddenly, come painfully to life. _How_ _often_ _had_ _he_ _heard_ _the_ _accusation_? It had almost become a sick cliché.

The Jews did nothing.

They didn't even fight back.

_In a way, they deserved to die._

The view was ignorant in the extreme, of course. And so wrong. He knew it was. Even though he was hardly an expert, there was a plethora of evidence to the contrary. Some events had gone down in history as a testament of extreme courage. A paean to the the human spirit, when all hope, and all compassion had gone.

There were partisan groups, such as the _Bielski Brother's Gang,_ who managed to flee into the woods. They'd set up escape lines for other Jews and fought viciously against the Germans. They pre-empted the Vietcong by twenty years, by surviving in hand-dug, tunnel complexes; engaging the enemy, and beating the odds, from their lair underneath the forest floor.

And then, of course, there was the Warsaw Ghetto. Perhaps the largest, collective piece of heroism. Don had learned all about it many years ago, from reading _Mila 18_. On the eve of the last transports to the death camps, once the Nazis decided to liquidate the Ghetto, the remaining Jews put months of planning into action and staged an effective uprising. The remnants of the ghetto put up a hell of fight and held out for almost two months. It was a pretty amazing achievement, and longer than Poland itself had. There were acts of desperation and outstanding valour, but there could only be one terrible outcome.

_Those people hadn't anything left to lose. Every vestige, every last spark of hope had gone. _

There were many other incidents and uprisings, and too often, the stories had been suppressed. Either by Nazi propaganda or the people of the occupied territories. Anti-Semitism had been rife in the world at that time, especially in Eastern Europe, and German action against the Jews had not been entirely unwelcome. It provided an unexpected free-for-all, and deflected attention from their own plight.

"Don? Are you awake, can you hear me?" Erika called out to him, softly.

He started, and wiped some of the blood away. He hadn't realised she was still in the room.

_Way to go, Special Agent Eppes._

She was somewhere behind him, on the sofa, judging from the direction of her voice. He pushed aside his thoughts and his own set of troubles. She sounded frail and terrified.

"I'm here."

As it turned out, talking was pretty tough. It hurt just as much as he'd expected. He forced himself to take a few short breaths. It was his only way of getting any air.

"Don, oh, _danken Got,_ you're awake." She gave a half-sob of relief. "I was beginning to think . . . to worry . . . I didn't know if you were still alive. I gave that man, Jay, all my jewellery. All my credit cards, all the money in the house. When we came back downstairs, you were unconscious. That Nazi had beaten you again."

"Who's outside?"

He couldn't afford to waste any time. He had a feeling there wasn't much left to them. The sooner he knew what he was up against, the easier to magic up some sort of plan. If he didn't shift now, he never would. He cajoled his weary body into moving. On a scale of one to ten, it wasn't easy. Now, if Charlie were here to estimate the numbers, he doubted he would score a two point five.

"I don't know. A man - he only just arrived. He hasn't even been in the room."

They'd hobbled her, he noticed, with a sharp flash of anger, and her wrists were tied together with scarves. What kind of vindictive monsters would treat an old woman like this? As questions went, it was kind of redundant. He already knew the answer. They were just out of sight, in the hallway. _God_, _he really_ _hoped_ _his_ _team_ _was_ _outside_.

"Did they hurt you, sweetie?" He asked, urgently.

She kept flexing and extending her fingers, and her hands were already looking puffy. She was old, this nightmare was one hell of a shock, and her circulation was poor.

Don grit his teeth, and ignored the pain, as he dragged himself up beside her. His sense of injustice grew stronger, as he looked into her red-rimmed eyes.

"Not me – _you."_ She tried to reach his poor, battered face, but the bindings on her hands prevented her. "When they brought me back, there was so much blood. I was afraid you were dead."

"They don't want either of us dead just yet. They're waiting to see what they can get out of this."

Don worked at loosening the scarf from her wrists. She was pale and he was worried about her. Her hands were trembling slightly, how much more abuse could she stand?

"They're in way over their heads, and they've panicked. They didn't bank on me being FBI. There - " he rubbed at the swollen rings of chafed skin, trying to ease some of her discomfort. "Hopefully, that should be a little easier. Listen, I'm sorry I have to ask you, but Erika, when you made the phone call to Joel - "

"It's all right, I understand," she answered, quickly. "Just before Jay snatched the phone away, Joel overheard all the noise. I don't know if he got the message, but I told him to call the FBI."

Don felt his heart sink a little. It didn't sound too optimistic. But Joel Hellman loved his grandmother very much, (_he was a lucky man, Don didn't blame him)_ he couldn't have missed all the commotion, and he certainly wasn't a fool. A couple of pertinent, long-distance calls, and by now, things should have swung into action.

He'd been out of it this last time for over an hour. Long enough for the cavalry to arrive.

_So what the hell was keeping his team? _

He_ had_ to assume Joel had called them. _Had_ _to_ _keep_ _looking_ _on_ _the_ _brightside_. In the glass half full type of scenario, he wasn't ready to give up just yet. No, his team were out there, and he was betting they knew all about this. If he could hold out for a little longer, then eventually, help _would_ appear. The alternative didn't bear thinking about. The other options were just too dreadful. It had gone way too far past the point of no return, and Don knew they would end up dead.

Until then, they were on their own. It was not an encouraging prospect. A crocked up, FBI agent, and a fragile, albeit feisty, old lady.

But there was more to this lady than met the eye.

He should have known better than to underestimate her.

Erika finished untying her ankles, and reached down the cushioned side of the sofa. She rummaged around for a couple of seconds, and then produced a tapestry bag. Don had seen bags like this before; his Aunt Irene had one just like it. Large, and nearly always clamped to her arm, it accompanied her wherever she went. Sure enough, it was a knitting bag. Erika opened it wide. It was filled with patterns and balls of wool, but more importantly, lots of sharp knitting needles.

"Here," she delved down, deeper inside, and withdrew a pair of pointed scissors. "You should hide these away in your pocket. I'll hang onto the knitting needles, I have a feeling they might come in handy."

"That's my girl."

Don smiled, he couldn't help it. Even though it cost no small amount of pain. His face was stiff and weirdly asymmetrical. He could no longer see a thing out of his left eye.

"Erika," he spoke, softly. "I promise you will see Joel again. I plan on getting you out of this. Alive - whatever it takes."

"Not if it takes _your_ life," she touched his face with a gentle hand, "and that remains non-negotiable. I won't let you sacrifice yourself for me. It's too high a price to pay."

The voices in the hallway got louder, and the door was pushed open again. The small strip of yellow expanded, and then the lounge was flooded with light. Meathead the moron was first back into the room, and their brief moment of grace was at an end. Don shot Erika an urgent glance, but the miraculously, the knitting bag had vanished. She was quick - very quick - he might have guessed it. Better start worrying about himself.

He hid the scissors deep in his pocket – getting caught was the last thing he needed.

_Quite what he was going to do with them?_

That was another matter entirely.

He was putting on a brave face for Erika, but in reality, he was feeling weak and shaky. His eyesight was really deteriorating; the double vision was getting more pronounced. Unless he frowned, and squinted very hard, he could barely focus at all.

But worse,_ a lot worse,_ was the pain in his chest. The blaze of agony every time he tried breathing. He was restricted to shallow, gulping breaths, which refused to supply him with enough air.

It was no good dwelling on his various woes. Don was nothing if not pragmatic. If he didn't do something to get them out of this mess, then lack of breathing wouldn't really be an issue. The last thing he would have to worry about was whether or not he had enough air.

He was back to the '_nothing left to lose'_ thing. To acquiesce, or to go down fighting. Just like all those poor people he'd read about. _It really was no choice at all._ If he was alone, then he'd risk everything. There was no question of doubt about it.

To hope your captors might be feeling magnanimous. Or to take your chances and fight?

_It always seemed to come back to this. _

To all intents and purposes, Erika was still tied. She'd draped the scarf back over her wrists in a hasty attempt at concealment. He scarcely had time to appreciate the move, before the new player entered the room. His identity didn't come as much of a shock. In a way, Don had already guessed it. To see him standing here, large as life, in the flesh, it was merely corroboration.

Peyton Shoemaker stared at him in shock. To be fair, the man seemed honestly dismayed. Don realised, with a crack of dark humour, that he probably wasn't looking his best.

"Mister Shoemaker?" Erika was horrified. "_Oi va voi,_ I can't believe it. You did this?"

"I didn't intend for anyone to get hurt."

Underneath the thread of resentment, Shoemaker sounded almost discomfited. He looked scared, and Don didn't blame him. He couldn't meet Erika's gaze.

"You paid these men?" Erika continued, her voice shook with distress and contempt. "Look what they did to Agent Eppes; was losing the Pissarro really worth _this?_ More than sixty years after the war, and the Nazis are still destroying lives. How many more people have to die before you consider it enough? When will it ever be over - _how much more Jewish blood will be shed?"_

"I don't regret doing the other things." He raised his eyes in defiance. "You people, you always play the Holocaust card, like it gives you some kind of impunity." He looked over at Don, and held out his hands, as if seeking his understanding. "It wasn't so much about the picture, as what they did to my father's reputation. He was a decent man, a war hero. He took part in the Normandy Landings. To have them print those things, _those lies,_ about him . . . " Shoemaker paused. "He never deserved that. You had the Pissarro - the provenance - and the money. It should have been more than enough for you. What I don't understand is the vindictiveness. Why stoop to such petty revenge?"

"You really think I would do such a thing?" Erika was stricken. Her glance strayed across to the mantelpiece, and lingered over the painting. "After everything that happened to my family? It was only ever about them. About reparation and justice. It had nothing to do with you or your father. Not the money, and _never _revenge."

"Do you really expect me to believe that? How can I, after they printed that article?"

"You damned fool, she had nothing to do with it."

Don spoke up with difficulty. He was having a little trouble with his mouth. The words were getting harder to articulate. They didn't come out quite the way he wanted.

"Did you really think those newspaper articles originated with Mrs Hellman? And the _Holocaust card_?" He shook his head in disbelief, and gave a bitter laugh. "Just like_ you _played the _Zyklon B_ cards. I gotta hand to you, Shoemaker; you're even more of a hypocrite than I thought. First off, you terrorise an old lady, and then have the gall to say you don't want people to get hurt. You sent these morons to deliver, what amounts to death threats, when you know she's out here all alone? Well, I guess you can call me cynical, because know what, I don't believe you."

"That reporter – she told me – she practically named Mrs Hellman."

"She had nothing to do with any of it." Don spat out the words in anger, he was furious, in-spite of his pain. "You'd just lost millions of dollars, and been made to look one hell of a fool. Admit it, you used those articles as a lame excuse for your own bigotry."

"I just wanted part of them back again." Erika said in anguish. "My parents, all my brothers and sisters. The Pissarro is all I have left of them, and now, it's started over again. This evil - this terrible hatred - I thought it was finally finished with. We're no different. We're no different from you. _Dear God, will it never end?"_

"Not until you people know your place," Meat spoke up, and moved next to Shoemaker. He pulled the gun out of his pocket, and pointed it squarely at Don's head. "See, old Adolf, he had the right idea. We shoulda let him finish off the job. Which sort of brings me round to my next point," he looked expectantly at Shoemaker. "You got us into this, up to our necks. Far as I see, there's only one way out."

"Wait a minute - " Don was desperate. He knew he had to stall for time.

"_Shut-up._ Shut your fucking mouth, Fed."

Meat was losing any semblance of control. He was whacked out and filled with hatred. He took a step closer to the sofa, an ugly look on his face.

_Here we go,_ this wasn't looking so good. Don braced himself for more trouble, He tightened his muscles in readiness, and flinched at the thought of further pain. He closed his only working eye in expectation of another beating, but thankfully, and much to his surprise, Shoemaker pulled Meat away.

"Wait a minute - let's think about this rationally. Nobody needs to get seriously hurt here." Shoemaker stared at Don, almost shamefacedly, and something flickered briefly in his eyes. "I'll pay you both good money to disappear. This needn't be your problem. If you go now, I can take it from here. Leave it to me, I'll clean up any mess."

"Better do as he says."

Jay spoke, nervously. He must have wandered in from the kitchen. He was eating a roughly cut sandwich, and holding a carving knife. Don watched him closely, and felt a prickle of unease. He really didn't like the look of him. The man was pale and his limbs were twitching. Beads of sweat stood out on his skin.

_Oh_ _boy_, _this_ _was_ _just_ _dandy_. It was getting better and better by the minute.

By now, Don could recognise all the signs. Jay was having a pretty bad trip.

"Let's hear what our _buddy_ here, has to say, first." Meat used the term with some sarcasm.

"C'mon, man, " Jay waved the knife in the air. "_I_ _say,_ we go now. We can still make it out of here, before this shit gets too crazy. He'll pay us good, he said so, and we got the old lady's stuff. Ain't no point hanging 'round any longer. We're playin' on borrowed time."

"Relax, Jay, we ain't in no hurry. Let's have ourselves a little fun."

Meat smiled, and pushed Shoemaker's hand off his arm. He toyed blatantly with the gun. Somehow, the balance of power had shifted, and there was no doubt who was in command.

"I think we got all the time in the world. _They lied to us – the Fed's ain't comin'."_

**_TBC_**

* * *

**NB -**

_**Marathon Man**_ _is a brilliant film staring Dustin Hoffman and Sir Laurence Olivier, in which Olivier plays a Nazi fugitive from justice. There's one particular, cringe-inducing scene, which will put you off the dentist's chair for life._

_**Mila 18**_ _is an outstanding novel written by Leon Uris of **Exodus** fame. It was the name of the command bunker used by the Jewish Resistance, during the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising._

_As ever, many thanks for reading - _

**_Lisa._**

* * *


	5. Chapter 5

_**

* * *

Yet another vote of thanks to everyone reading this - especially the anon. reviewers. Although I can't say so in person, I'm very grateful for your comments and thoughts. **_

Lisa. 

_**

* * *

**_

_**Z is for Zyklon B**_

* * *

_O, Earth, cover not thou my blood,_

_And let my cry have no resting place._

Job 16:18

* * *

_**Part Five**_

Don knew it, when he saw the look in Meat's eyes. From the second the words left the man's mouth. If he didn't take some sort of action right now, he and Erika were going to die.

Outside, the storm was raging even louder, and the wind shrieked and whistled in the darkness. The howl of the weather had reached a crescendo which echoed the climax inside. Thunder rumbled up over the canyon, as the rain lashed in waves against the windows. It felt kind of fitting, in a clichéd sort of way, like something out of a corny old movie. All they needed now, was the power to fail, or for some ghost to start rattling chains.

_Or_, _maybe they already had that?_

Don jumped, as a shutter banged outside.

"On your feet, Fed." Meat moved forward, and stood over him. His face curved into a gloating smile. "You, me, and the old lady, we got some unfinished business to take care of."

_Not this time._

He was _so_ not going to obey this time. There really didn't seem that much point to it. So, Meat was enjoying his pathetic little power kick, but the moron had another thing coming. Don realised they were getting very close to the end, but he was not prepared to roll over and die. The disobedience was petty, but important to him. It was all about self-respect and honour.

He turned around to look at Erika - there was no way either one of them would grovel. She barely inclined her head at him, but he saw the tacit steel in her eyes. _It_ _was_ _enough_, he felt a sudden swell of relief. Her strength was like a seal of approval. Whatever happened, whatever the consequences, he felt a warm glow of dignity and pride.

He would not give Meat the satisfaction.

_He could wait as long as he godamned liked._

No, the game was over, and there was nothing to lose. In a way, it was kind of funny. As though time and fate had spun around full-circle, and trapped him and Erika inside. He'd never thought - never believed for a minute - this afternoon, when he'd started his research. It was not remotely possible, in this day and age, that this would ever happen to him.

_But then again, isn't that what they believed?_

It was ludricrous. Far too incredible. For God's sake, it was the twentieth century. Germany, the home of Goethe; and Beethoven, Schiller and Bach?

And surely, they wouldn't dare do it. The rest of the world would put a stop to it. Such a thing was preposterous and truly absurd, in the civilised climate of today.

Some had believed until the very end. After their homes and possessions were stripped from them. Right up until the terrible moment when they'd been herded to the edge of the pit. Or been crammed into the cattle trucks at gunpoint, to take the final train-ride to the death-camps. They'd clung onto the hope it was a hideous mistake, until the first deadly hiss of the gas.

Don felt a frisson of _deja-vu_ shiver its way down his back.

Mister conservative, straight arrow, Eppes. But, right now, he was feeling rebellious. Against all the odds, he felt remarkably cool-headed. He was far more angry than scared.

_Must be a fundamental failing of his._

"You gonna stand there and let this happen?" Don acted as though Meat hadn't spoken, and looked over at Shoemaker instead. He could still feel Erika's eyes on him, desperately willing him to take care. "You said you only wanted to scare her, don't turn this thing into a killing. Think man, when you're caught, and you _will _be caught, what this is, is a needle in your arm."

Shoemaker shuffled, uncomfortably, and refused to give him an answer. Not that Don was really expecting one, he was stalling for precious time. Right now, he wasn't all that fussy. He was prepared to take whatever was on offer. A few seconds which might work in their favour, hell, _anything_ to help stem the tide.

"That's it, _now _you've pissed me off." Meat moved in before he had time to react, and smashed him around the head with the Sig. He reached down, his hands grasping hold of Don's lapels, and dragged him up from the sofa. "It's about time we put an end to this. I've had enough of you, and your smart fucking mouth. Jay, take the old lady outside."

"Now, wait a minute," Shoemaker woke-up, and stepped forward. His voice sounded distinctly nervous. "Let's not be hasty or stupid. Let's _all three _of us think about this carefully for a minute, and consider what Agent Eppes just said. We can still stop things from getting too far out of hand. There's no need for the gun or the violence. The FBI involvement - the brutality - I never wanted any of this."

"Too late," mumbled Don, as Meat hit him again. He was back on the blue Persian carpet. His head rang like a bell from the last round of blows, and there was a taste of fresh blood in his mouth. He blinked down at the blue tufts beneath him. He was a getting just a little too comfortable here.

_So much for the great rebellion._

It would be too late for any kind of action, at all, if he didn't get his ass in gear soon.

It was clearly no dice with the lovely Meat, but Shoemaker still sounded uncertain. _Actually,_ and the point suddenly hit home like a bombshell, _Shoemaker sounded for the entire world, like he was carefully feeding someone information._

He'd mentioned the gun, and the fact Don was hurt. The number of men in the room.

_Could he be wired?_

Don wasn't sure, but the thought gave him a sharp stab of hope. He glanced quickly up at Shoemaker's face, searching for any hint of confirmation. But either he was sadly mistaken, or the man was giving nothing away.

_Had the FBI made some kind of deal with him?_

_If he was wired,_ Don tried to look on the bright side. _His team now knew there were two armed protagonists. _They had all the detailed Intel they needed, to get inside the house and start saving lives. The bang he'd heard earlier - maybe it wasn't the wind. Maybe, they were already out there?

_So come on then, what are you waiting for? Anytime you feel like it, guys . . ._

Another boot connected with the plane of his hip. Now, that sucker was really going to hurt later. He curled inward to shield his ribs from the pain; by now, he must be covered in bruises.

_When would he learn to keep his mouth shut? _

It didn't look likely in this lifetime.

His mind sifted through all the options. They were small and pathetically meagre. It was no good relying on a forlorn hope, or the off-chance his team _was_ outside. And besides, he'd made a promise to Erika, and it was one he intended to keep. He'd assurred her she would get to see Joel again, and walk away from this damned mess alive.

He needed to be in the same room as her. It was vital they stayed together. He had to be around to protect her if his team was planning a raid. The way things were going, right at this minute, it was inevitable some shots would be fired. Don knew from his acquaintance with Meathead, the man wouldn't go down without a fight.

Don knew his overwhelming priority was to stop Erika from leaving with Jay.

"You think there's a choice?" Meat spun on Shoemaker in anger, and waved the gun back towards Don. "There ain't no more choices, dickhead. You really think you can leave, or buy your way outta this? _He_ ain't gonna smile and wave us bye-bye. He'll come after us, he's a Fed."

"You're going to kill them." It wasn't a question.

_Well, duh._

Don gave Shoemaker ten out of ten. Talk about stating the obvious. What the hell had the man expected? He was no longer calling the shots here, and it was hardly rocket science. If this scene was taking place in a movie, or he was watching some hokey cop show on TV, then right about this time, he would be shaking his head, and feeling a little sorry for Shoemaker. The man was up to his neck in it. He had stumbled into the quagmire.

He took advantage of the brief diversion, and snaked a hand down to his pocket.

_Still there._ He gave a sigh of relief. _Thank God, the scissors hadn't fallen out._

He curled his fingers gratefully around them. The steel point was sharp and vastly comforting. They were hardly his first choice of weapon, but he wasn't exactly overwhelmed with options. The situation was worsening by the second, and beggars couldn't be choosers. Judging by the way things were going, then the scissors might be their last chance.

"Please, don't let them do this," now Erika was pleading with Shoemaker. "It's time to put a stop to this wickedness. Time to end all this hatred. In your heart, you must know it's wrong."

"I can't – I can't. Don't ask me._ Everything_ – it's _all _gone wrong. It's out of my hands - out of my control. I never meant for this to happen."

"Then, why not put an end to it now?" Her voice was surprisingly steady. Although she was the one being threatened, she sounded almost sorry for him. "You can make this stop if you want to. There's still time to do the right thing."

"Shut-up," Meat leaned down, and thrust his face into hers. "I've had enough of the bleeding heart talk. Had enough of this shit and the whole damned mess, had enough of you stinkin' Jews. It's time for a little payback, time we got this over and done with. Tell me, lady, what does it feel like? To know you're worse than a piece of vermin? You might have escaped us the first time around, but we caught up to you in the end. Just like we'll catch up with all _your kind_, you and your Jewboy Fed, here. I think it's time for another six million – we'll get you all in the end."

"Leave her alone."

Don shifted up onto his elbow. He'd had enough of this crappy rhetoric. Meathead was right about one thing - it _was _time to get this over and done with. Time to regain a little healthy self-respect, and to hell with the consequences. He levered his body up off the ground. Perhaps _healthy_ was the wrong choice of words, here. Something told him, call it instinct, _call it what the hell you like,_ but Don knew they had just stepped beyond the pale.

He had to act now, in the seconds that were left.

_Whether his team were outside or not._

"You and _your kind_ make me sick." He threw Meat's insult straight back at him, laying plenty of emphasis on the _your kind._ He turned it into a form of abuse by using the same connotation. "You get your rocks off by bullying a helpless old lady. Look at you, you're a real tough guy. Jack yourself up, and wave a gun in my face. Oh, yeah, you're a reall hard man."

"Well, look who just grew himself a pair." Meat turned his attention from Erika. "You got something to say to me, _Jewboy_? Something you wanna take up?"

Don stared him down for a moment, and then shook his head with a short laugh. "Nothing you'd ever understand. Why bother wasting my breath?"

"Why, you - "

Don caught the gleam in the other man's eye, and knew he'd finally done it. His words had pushed Meathead over the edge, and goaded him one step too far. _This was it, then, the moment of truth._ His hand tightened around the scissors. Right now, it seemed sort of appropriate, so he offered up a short prayer.

Erika was watching him closely, and he sensed she was waiting for a signal. He needed Meat to come a little closer, to get within striking range. So okay, realistically, he knew they didn't stand much of a chance. But, this time, Don was willing to risk it.

It was better than doing nothing at all.

_Better than going meekly to the slaughter, heads bowed, like obedient, little lambs. _

"Think you're clever? I'll show you who's clever," Meat wasn't smirking anymore, as he raised the gun again. He placed his thumb on the safety catch, and held the weapon level with Don's chest. "And, if we're talkin' about you wastin' your breath, well, there's somethin' I can do about that problem. It's my turn to give_ you_ something, Jew-boy. Something _your kind_ should understand."

Don's heart plunged a little at that. Not by the words, but the proximity. He gripped hold of the scissors even tighter. _He wasn't close enough yet._ He was banking on Meat's propensity for violence, and gratuitous use of his fists. Up close and personal, and he might have a chance, _a small chance, _to use the scissors as a weapon. Then, maybe - _just maybe_ - he could wrestle for the gun, and their prospects would be a lot brighter.

As far as he knew, Jay was still unarmed. _All apart from the wicked looking knife._

Shoemaker was the wildcard. The proverbial joker in the pack. Did the man have anything resembling a conscience, or was he more concerned with saving himself? The events of the next few minutes would surely provide the answer to that.

"No, wait," Shoemaker took a step closer to Don. "He's right. It has to end now. I can't allow anymore violence, Travis, I didn't sign up for murder. Just lower the gun, and leave here while you can. The money's outside in the car."

"Hear that?" Meat turned to Jay with a leer._"The money's outside in the car._ Why, thank you kindly, Mister Shoemaker, real good of you to be so helpful. Take the old lady outside, Jay. I'll clean up the mess in here."

"Don?"

Erika gave a frightened cry of protest, as Jay started across to the sofa.

"It's okay, sweetie. Better do as he says. Mister Shoemaker will go outside with you. Listen, don't worry about me. I promise you, I'll be okay."

Don gave her his best reassuring look, and tried to buy them a little more time. He kept his eyes focused steadfastly on Erika, and didn't raise them towards Meat again. He knew, if he looked up, and met that smug gaze, then his own, violent intentions might show.

"Yeah, _better do as I say,"_ Meat mimicked. He was clearly enjoying this. "Better take one last look, lady, cos you won't see each other again." He raised the gun, execution style, and aimed it, dead centre at Don's forehead. "Kinda shame this has to be so quick, but me and Jay, we gotta prior engagement. Wish I could say it's been a pleasure, but I was always taught not to lie."

"Go to hell – go fuck yourself!"

Don swore in basic Anglo-Saxon. The words gave him a great deal of satisfaction. _Closer - he needed Meat closer. _To weight the odds more on his side. He looked across at Peyton Shoemaker, but the man was frozen, white-faced and silent. He was watching it all unravel, as if in a dream, both his fists tightly balled at his side.

"Shoemaker, for God's sake, help her!" Don tried to break through the man's fugue. "Is this what your father would have wanted? What he fought for on those Normandy beaches?" Shoemaker only stared at him blankly, so Don turned to Meathead again. "If you think you'll get away with it, _Travis,_ then you're even more stupid than you look."

_Time over._ Meat's face hardened. _He really didn't look like a Travis._

His finger tightened on the trigger, and Don braced himself against the shot. _This was it, then._ Looked like it was done with. So much for all his promises to Erika.

_So much for being a hero._

He thought briefly of dad and Charlie. This was going to be pretty hard on them. They'd moved so far forward together since the dark days just after mom died. For the first time, they felt like a family; shedding their differences, and growing closer. He sent them a silent apology, and hoped they would understand why.

_It was now – it was now or never._

Wasn't like there would be any more chances. Don forced himself to take a deep breath - it was as much as his broken ribs could stand. _Time to act._ He ignored the pain, and re-channelled it into desperation. He knew it would suck up all his energy to perform this one last spurt of effort.

He ducked his head, and lunged forwards, expecting to feel the burn of a bullet. He was barely aware of simultaneous movement just out of the corner of his eye. Peyton Shoemaker was closer than he was. The man made it just before he did. He stumbled full-tilt into Meathead, and Don saw him reach for the gun.

The night splintered into fragments like the facets of a prism.

_Both the gun and the lights went off._

There was a heavy thud as somebody slumped to the floor. Don had a feeling it wasn't Meathead. He staggered over what he thought was Peyton Shoemaker, and almost lost his balance and fell. _Was he dead?_ Don didn't have time to find out. The whole thing just ramped up to critical. He knew exactly what was going to happen, the second everything went black.

_No time to waste. There was no time to waste. _

"Erika," he yelled, "get down!"

The next thing he heard was a pounding on the door.

Then a shout of; "_Open up, FBI."_

He launched himself forward with a last burst of impetus, and felt something pop in his chest. It was worth it, in-spite of the agony. Don thanked the lord for adrenalin. The scissors sank into something yielding and soft, and Meat swore with sudden pain.

A burst of gunfire shattered their eardrums. The room was filled with the sharp stink of cordite.

"Don?" He heard Erika call out to him.

_Dear God, he prayed she was all right_.

He wrapped his arms around Meat like a linebacker. _Damn, but the man was solid._ They swayed together, like a pair of grotesque dancers, before lurching into the coffee table. When Meat fell, he toppled like a pine tree, and the momentum took Don crashing down with him. The flimsy wood cracked and splintered, as they thudded through it, onto the ground.

He heard Meat give a hoarse grunt of pain, and knew a moment of savage exultation. They both floundered for purchase in the darkness, thrashing around on the broken table top. It wasn't all that much of a battle. Meat was huge, and he was already injured. Don fought on, in silent desperation, but it was so hard to get any air.

_Couldn't breathe - he couldn't breathe._

Meat's hand clamped tightly around his windpipe, and Don felt himself becoming weaker. Bright spots were dancing in front of his eyes, and he knew he couldn't hold out much longer. Just when it seemed like the game might be up, Meat arched backwards in sudden agony. His hand tightened convulsively around Don's throat, and then almost as abruptly, relaxed.

Don took a shuddering gasp of air. The reprieve had come just in time. He had just enough strength to stay conscious. _He was barely able to make it._ He unlocked Meat's fingers from his windpipe, and pushed the man away, to one side.

There was a raucous cacophony of noise in the room. Someone was shouting, and he could hear loud banging. A soft tread of footsteps beside him, and then the lounge became flooded with light. Don cried out in pain – he couldn't help it - as his shattered ribs flailed for air.

"Don, you okay, man? Can you hear me?"

"About time." he just about managed to croak out the words. He took a harsh, very shaky breath. Everything was reeling around him, and he had to fight hard to stay awake. He blinked once or twice, as his eyes re-adjusted, and looked up at David Sinclair. "Erika?"

"I'm here, Don." She slid down onto the rug with surprising agility, and then he saw there was blood on her hands.

"Hurt – you're hurt. David, the medics - "

"No, no," she wiped at her hands, and shook her head at him. Her eyes were wide with distress. "I'm all right, it's not mine, you see."

"Then - "

"That man," she said, simply, "he was hurting you. I picked up the scissors from the carpet, and stuck them into his throat."

_Oh God,_ Don stared at her helplessly, his mind full of conflicting emotions. Anger and sadness, a sense of alarm, and an overwhelming feeling of sorrow. She hated, _no,_ _better make that abhorred_, any kind of physical violence. And yet – _he found it hard to come to terms with_ - she might have just killed a man on his behalf.

"I'm sorry," he managed to force out the words. He felt absurdly weak with shock and nausea, and he _still_ couldn't get any air. "Really sorry," the words sounded so pathetic, so inadequate, as he looked up into her shadowed eyes.

"I'm not," she laid a trembling hand on his cheek. "You see, there was no contest. When it came to a choice between you or him, there was only one thing I could do."

He realised, her horror at what she had done, had been tempered by saving his life. For a moment, the room swung around him, and he only hoped he was worth it.

"Don?" Megan knelt down beside Erika. Much to her credit, she didn't flinch at his face. "Just relax, the medics are here."

"Shoemaker?" He had to ask.

She shook her head. "I'm afraid he didn't make it. Actually, none of them did."

"He saved my life," Don rasped, breathlessly, his voice sounding odd to his ears. "Took out Meat . . . _Travis,_ before I could get to him. Threw himself over the gun."

"He was out of his depth," Megan shook her head again; "we picked him up after Travis contacted him. Joel Hellman alerted us from London, and we intercepted the call."

"He was wired?"

"We cut a deal with him. He was not supposed to play hero."

_Not supposed to play hero._

But in the end, he'd done the decent thing.

Don stared over at Shoemaker's body. He felt empty, and suddenly weary. _Where the hell was the black and white in all this?_ The lines were all criss-crossed and blurry. It was futile, he couldn't comprehend it. And it wasn't _just _the blows to his head.

What had happened tonight, everything that he'd read. It was all washed in shades of grey.

_Who were the winners in any of this?_

No one, as far as he could see.

"Don?"

He realised someone was calling his name. It was Megan - _or both Megan and Erika._ He tried his darned hardest to answer them, but his words sighed away on the air.

Shades of grey expanding around him - as dense as a curtain of fog. They edged in, like six million displaced ghosts, standing just beyond the periphery of his vision.

Don knew they'd come to claim him.

_The room darkened, and his eyes slip closed._

_**TBC**_

* * *


	6. Chapter 6

**_

* * *

_**

_**Before we go any further, I feel I owe you an explanation for this chapter. I've thought long and hard about posting it, and whether or not to chop it about. It soon becomes self-explanatory, and I hope you feel it's in keeping with the story. As for an interpretation, well, I leave that up to your imagination, and whatever you desire to believe. **_

_**Perhaps it's the results of Don's research combined with some morphine-induced dreams? Race memory, a lurid nightmare, or maybe something a little deeper. Whichever way you choose to read this chapter, I really hope you enjoy. **_

_**Lisa. **_

**_NB – I've deliberately used a 'whilst' and other English English-ism's in the European sections. All the facts are true, and describe the way things actually happened in the Warsaw Ghetto just prior to the final liquidation. _**

_**

* * *

**_

_**Z is for Zyklon B**_

* * *

_O, Earth, cover not thou my blood,_

_And let my cry have no resting place._

Job 16:18

* * *

_**Part Six**_

There was nothing special about the morning they came. It was cold and dark, just like any other morning. The air was sharp and crystal clear with the unforgiving stab of frost. It was late March, and the winter had been long and cruel.

_Late March, but there was no hint of spring._

He jumped awake like a cat at the first sign of any trouble. The sound of an engine in the street. By then, it was too late to do anything much, except curse himself for being so negligent. It was too late to even wake up the others, let alone for him and little Chatzi to hide.

The German_ Aktions_ had been stepping up lately, and they usually followed the same basic strategy. They would seal off the street using armoured cars, and send 'clean-up' squads to search all the houses. Unless you had a vital work permit, you would be marched to the _Umschlagplatz_.

He sat up when he heard their boots on the stairs. The ear-splitting shrill of the whistles.

_"Everyone up, everybody downstairs. Take only what you can carry!"_

The tramp of feet and splintering of wood, followed by other, just as familiar noises. The dawn light was fractured by a sudden sense of dread, echoing up from the over-crowded rooms below.

People were shouting and crying, their many voices adding to the terror. Some of them harsh and guttural, some of them pleading with fear. _A gunshot._ Someone had made a run for it. It was nothing new; it usually always happened. Nine times out of ten, they didn't make it, but Doni always admired the ones who fought and tried.

"Adonai?"

The noise had woken Mrs Mandelbaum. She looked at him with terrified eyes. They'd been sharing the tiny back room for six months now, him and Chatzi, and her two small children. They were from somewhere in the West, he wasn't quite sure where. _Austria,_ he thought, _maybe Vienna._ She worked as a seamstress in the clothing factory, making uniforms for the Waffen SS. Like most of the foreign Jews sent into the ghetto, the Mandelbaum's had been homeless when they'd first arrived. He'd found them wandering the streets last autumn, only minutes before an _Aktion_ had started. Luckily, she spoke some Yiddish, so he had shepherded them hurriedly inside.

She cried all the time because her husband was dead, but the arrangement had suited both of them. He took care of her children in the daytime, and it meant Chatzi had someone with him at night. If it wasn't for him, they would have starved by now. He was a wire rat, he knew the city. When it was dark, after curfew, he would sneak across to the Aryan side.

Even though he was twelve years old now, he could still get away without wearing an armband. If he was caught on the streets after curfew, then the Germans would shoot him on sight. The punishment was the same, and likely to be worse, if he was found without an armband on the Aryan side. If captured, he would be made an example of, and his body end up strung on the barbed wire.

But there really was no alternative now. Without the extra food, they wouldn't survive. The rations had been docked to three hundred calories a day, and people were dying of starvation in the ghetto. There was a baker who'd taken pity on him, and would leave him any leftover stale bread, and the Poles who swapped sugar and potatoes, for the gold and jewellery he could scavenge from the dead.

There were plenty of pickings if you knew where to look. Gold had no worth in the ghetto. All the newcomers who arrived clutching their valuables, they soon learned the most important currency was bread. The best time was after an _Aktion_, once the Germans had cleared out a whole building. Doni and a host of other wire rats would then search the empty flats, room by room. Of course, the Germans would have taken all the obvious things, but most people hid their precious belongings. He'd gotten wise to the usual types of hiding place, and smart enough to know exactly where to look.

The women were the most inventive. It was always worth looking in the oven. Or maybe among the discarded toys, in the pathetic piles of children's things. The men were far more obvious. They usually prised up the floorboards; or made a small hole in the mattress, so they could stuff their meagre treasures inside.

The Germans were in no hurry this morning, as they worked systematically through the building. Outside, it was almost light now, and the pearly dawn had whitened the sky. If they were lucky, they had a few minutes grace. Doni turned to look at little Chatzi. His brother was awake and sitting up now, watching him with wide solemn eyes.

"Is it them, have they come for us, Doni, just like they came for momma and poppa?"

Now, more than ever, he needed to be strong. He put an arm around the sharp, bony shoulders. He would take whatever opportunity he could, to get them out of this mess alive. "Promise me you'll do whatever they ask. Do what they tell you and don't say a word?"

"I promise," Chatzi's voice trembled, and he sounded very scared, but to his credit, he didn't cry. "I promise I'll be good boy, but I don't want you to leave me. Promise you won't leave me, Doni, I'm frightened of being all alone."

"It's all right, Chatzi, I won't leave you."

He bit down on the inside of his lip. There'd been no warnings, no rumours of this _Aktion._ If only he'd known about it, then he could have taken Chatzi to safety. By now, there were streets lined with empty buildings, their occupants long since moved-on. Maybe, if he'd been a better brother, he and Chatzi could have hidden in one of them. He knew many people tried to survive that way, by playing cat and mouse with the clean-up squads. They lived every day in hiding, dodging from building to building. If caught, they were usually shot on sight, as the German round-ups went on.

"Adonai?" Mrs Mandelbaum held something out to him. Her face was pale, but she seemed remarkably calm, as she finished dressing her two, sleepy children. "Here, I want you to take this. Please, it's of no use to me. It's my work permit for the clothing factory. I can't stay behind without my children, but one of us has to try to survive."

Doni took the permit out of her hand. It was the difference between living and dying. This small scrap of card could save his life, but the German's would still take Chatzi.

He looked down at his seven year old brother. So helpless, so innocent and trusting. He'd made a promise to his father and mother, that he'd never leave Chatzi's side.

The Germans were at the top of the stairs now; he heard the rush of their boots on the landing. He thrust the work permit into his pocket, and grasped tight hold of little Chatzi's hand.

_I can't,_ he waited, his heart pounding, as he wrestled with his conscience and despair. _I promised them I wouldn't leave him._ _It's my job to protect him - he'll never make it alone, without me._

He could feel the weight of the permit. It burned through his threadbare short trousers. The small square of card ate into his thigh, like a live coal against his flesh.

_I can't leave him. I just can't do it . . _

* * *

_I can't do it. I just can't do it . . ._

"Yes, you can. You _can_ do it. You have to hold on, and breathe for me, Donnie."

A rush of lights, the bang of a door, and then, _suddenly_, he was moving.

Don opened his eyes, but it didn't help. He still didn't know where he was.

_Dear God, why couldn't he breathe?_

There was something, a weight pushing down on his chest. The pressure was almost unbearable. If he could only get rid of it - _could get a mouthful of air_ - then things would be a hell of a lot better. He fought them, or at least he tried to. He could remember the urgency, the menace. He had to stop them, they meant to hurt him. He raised a hand to push the weight away.

"It's okay, Donnie, I have you. You have to relax and leave it be."

For a moment, he felt hazily indignant. _It was all very well for dad to lecture him._ All very well for him to grip tight hold of his hands, but he couldn't leave _it_ be, _and_ keep on breathing.

_And, incidentally,_ he was puzzled and afraid._ Just how did dad get here, anyway?_

Trust his father to get in on the act.

Nothing Alan did would ever surprise him. At least, not if it involved him or Charlie. He'd learned long ago, that when it came to family matters, he should never underestimate dad. The man seemed to have some sort of sixth sense thing going, if either one of his sons was in trouble. Very often it drove Don crazy. He wasn't sure if it was good or bad.

It really couldn't be that good right at this second.

_Wasn't dad aware they were in danger?_

Don tried to bring his eyes into focus, but for some reason, he couldn't see.

"There – doesn't that feel a little easier?"

_Dear God, no. It did not feel easier. In fact, it felt like all the fires of hell. _

He opened his mouth to argue, but the shock of it took his breath away. He realised, when the pain had subsided, it didn't do for him to try and speak. Someone was sawing logs close by. The noise it made was grating and hideous.

_Why didn't they make it go away?_

_They ought to give a guy a little peace._

The sound was beginning to get on his nerves. It was a while before he grasped it was his breathing. The sudden recognition frightened him, and the air of menace returned. A steel toe-cap crashing into his chest. He was trapped. There was no escaping them. His bones rattled like a bag of old china as a boot thudded into his ribs.

_Oh, God, it was all coming back to him now._

_Erika – where was Erika?_

He knew that he had to protect her. _Had to get up_ . . . he twisted his body. The movement was almost his downfall. The flash of agony was incandescent. Everything slanted and spiralled away, as the darkness pressed down and consumed him.

There were other hands, _different hands,_ on him then. For a moment, he thought it was them again. He fought and bucked against them, in-spite of the pain, and then something cold and stinging whooshed through his veins.

"Don't fight it, son. Please, don't fight it."

It was dad. He sounded panicked and frightened.

Don tried to answer, but by now, he was floating. He fell back against the gurney again.

"I'm here, Don. I'm not going anywhere." His father reached for his fingers. "I promise that I won't leave you. _Just keep holding onto my hand"_

* * *

"_Just keep holding onto my hand"_

He tightened his grip on Chatzi's sparrow bone fingers, as they were marched with the others through the streets. The column became longer as more houses were emptied, and the darkness turned to dull, grey light. As they turned the deserted corners, the icy wind bit at their faces.

It was almost springtime in the ghetto, but this year, the winter had lingered.

Everywhere he looked, there were signs of haste, and the pitiful remnants of lives. Here and there, a bundle of clothes, a single shoe, or an abandoned toy. Occasionally, they would march past a body, the unseeing eyes turned to the sky.

People shuffled slowly, their heads bowed in despair. It was the beginning of their last journey. Doni looked resolutely forward, always alert for a chance to escape, but in front of him, the road ran straight to the gates which led through to the _Umschlagpla_t_z._

Once beyond those gates, there would be no going back.

"Are they taking us to see momma and poppa?" Chatzi struggled along beside him.

"Hush, keep your voice down," he knew his voice was sharper than usual. "What did I tell you earlier? Keep quiet, and don't say a word."

"I'm sorry."

Chatzi looked up at him, his face white and pinched, and Doni immediately felt guilty. He was filled with both love and resentment as he tried to work out what to do. The work permit was still in his pocket. He could use it to save his own life. But to do so, would mean leaving Chatzi alone, and breaking the promise to his parents.

Another column emerged from a side street, and for a short time there was a sprawl of confusion. The street was filled with pushing and shoving as the two lines combined into one. The SS guards were forced to move out of the way in order to avoid the crush of bodies. After this, there would be no more opportunities. It was their only real prospect of escape.

Doni hung back and let the tide surge around him, as he and Chatzi were pushed up onto the pavements. There was a narrow alleyway just ahead of them, which veered off around the back of the houses. He knew these streets like the back of his hand. It would be easy to get lost in the chaos. If he and Chatzi slipped away unnoticed, then maybe he could find somewhere to hide.

He looked down, urgently. "Chatzi, can you run?"

His brother nodded. "Not as fast as you, but I can try."

They were five yards away when a commotion broke out. An old man made his own bid for freedom. There was a flurry of shots and a woman screamed, as two of the SS guard dogs brought him down.

Doni tried to drag Chatzi forward, but it was too late, the brief moment was over. The Germans started rounding up the stragglers in a frenzy of blows and shots.

He pulled Chatzi back from the edge of the group in order to avoid the random violence. A rifle butt glanced off his shoulder, but he ducked out of the worst of the pain.

_Gone._ It was gone.

_Their last chance of freedom. _

He stared longingly up the elusive alleyway. Even now, if he'd been alone, he might have chanced it, and risked falling to the bullets or the dogs. But Chatzi was weak with starvation and his legs were gawky and thin. To make any such attempt would be suicide; they would not get more than ten yards.

Doni reflected, not for the first time, that it was damned hard being the big brother. It was a headache and quite a responsibility, being accountable for Chatzi's safety. Their parents had been taken a year ago, but sometimes, it seemed like a lifetime. He could barely remember his own childhood or the lost days before the war. Life in the ghetto made you grow up fast and each day had been a struggle to exist. It was up to him to find warmth and food. To keep them both safe from the Germans.

If Chatzi had been older or stronger, he would have tried to escape the ghetto long ago. There were groups of partisans who might have taken him. There were lots of things a smart kid could do.

The gates were right in front of them now. There was an SS man asking to see papers. Doni watched as those with valid work permits were directed to stand to one side. _This was it, then._ He had to make up his mind. He dug his free hand into his pocket. The square of cardboard was still in there; his last chance of staying alive.

"Doni?"

It was Chatzi, disobeying his instructions again. He sounded very little and scared. Doni sighed, and looked down at his brother, as they got closer to the head of the line.

"What now?"

"I'm afraid of going in there, but I promise to be brave just like you."

"It's all right, you don't have to worry."

His heart clenched, as he made his decision. The choice he'd known he would make all along. He'd made a promise to his father and mother, and he would not leave his baby brother. In a way, it was almost a relief. A sudden weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He tried to sound really cool, just like Humphrey Bogart would, even though he knew it was a lie.

"We'll be fine if we stay together. Just you and me, together, Chatzi. That's the way it's supposed to be."

There was a girl standing next to him in the filter of people. A few years older than him, perhaps fifteen. She kept her head up as they got closer to the SS Man, watching him with bright, angry eyes.

"Quickly," He reached into his pocket for the permit, and pressed it into her cold hand. "Go on, use it!"

She looked down at the life-saving scrap of card. There was no time left for any words. But their fingers touched briefly, as he pulled Chatzi forwards, and there was a wealth of understanding in her eyes.

"God bless you!"

He thought he heard her call after them.

_He only hoped she would survive._

* * *

Don had long given up trying to talk to them. Everything was a jumble of nightmares. He was lost in a confusion of struggle and pain, and a morphine-induced swirl of dreams.

_He only hoped he would survive. _

He was aware of bright lights and voices, and the bump and scrape of a gurney. By now, he was weak and exhausted. Too light-headed from the unceasing fight to breathe.

His mind was filled with images of violence. Of swastika's and soldiers and Nazi's. With pictures, both genuine and illusory. The rhetoric and politics of hate. It was the drugs or the lack of oxygen. The only reason he was seeing apparitions. He felt like he was lost and abandoned, stumbling through a swathe of thick mist. As though he was searching for something - a chimera just out of reach.

_Shoemaker and Meat - all the research he'd done?_

He wasn't sure, anymore, which was real.

_Dear God, they were lifting him onto a bed._

The tsunami of pain was excruciating.

_Well, okay,_ he added a caveat; _Meat's boot had definitely been real. _

He didn't know if he cried out or not. He no longer gave a damn about appearances. He gripped hard onto something - _anything_ – he really hoped it wasn't dad's hand. If it was, and he'd fractured a couple of bones, he would have to apologise later.

"Don?"

He was ridiculously happy to hear Charlie's voice. For some reason, it was vastly comforting. Must be a result of the Freudian dreams, but it was a relief to know his brother was safe.

"Don, can you hear me, bro?"

_Gee, Chuck, you don't expect me to answer?_

However much of a relief it might be, Don still couldn't open his eyes. _Why wouldn't they help him, for God's sake?_ He thought Charlie was supposed to be a genius.

_Didn't they know he was in trouble?_

He felt like he was drowning here.

_Of course,_ it suddenly occurred to him. He _was_ drowning, that could be the answer. All those jagged rib ends shifting around inside of him - they had to end up somewhere. Meat and Jay had mistaken him for a football, and used him for soccer practise. After the kicking his ribs had been subjected to, it stood to reason he might have punctured a lung.

"Don, they're going to sedate you." It was Charlie. He sounded shaky, and a little frightened. "Your oxygen sats are dangerously low, and your heart and lungs are exhausted. The doctors need to pass a tube down your throat in order to help you to breathe. It's all right, you don't have to worry. Dad and I will be right here beside you. You just need to take it easy. We'll be fine if we stay together."

_It's all right, you don't have to worry. We'll be fine if we stay together._

The words sounded heartbreakingly familiar to him. As though he'd heard them somewhere in a vision.

_Perhaps he had? _

His mind was spiralling away again. They'd probably given him some form of anaesthesia. He was drifting down through the layers of illusion, dragged under by the weight of his dreams.

There was something – he could almost feel it.

_So close, that if he reached out his hand . . . _

* * *

There was hardly any room in the cattle truck. The air was foetid, and they'd scarcely left the station. Dozens of people all crammed in together, until there was no more space left to breathe. There were no longer any illusions left. It was written on the half-starved faces. No one clung onto any last shreds of doubt they might yet be destined for a labour camp.

They were headed for a place called _Auschwitz_. Or so the rumours said.

By now, they'd all heard the stories.

_Auschwitz was a place of death. _

Too many thousands had gone there. None of them had ever come back.

_At least he and Chatzi were together._

His brother was curled up in the corner fast asleep. He looked just like an underfed puppy. He'd been remarkably calm since they'd been taken, and his behaviour put things into perspective. During the time they'd had to wait on the _Umschlagplatz_, Doni realised something very important. He was Chatzi's rock, his anchor.

After everything . . . all of the bad stuff . . . all the terror and horrors they'd been through . . .

_His brother could cope with anything at all. _

_So long as Doni remained at his side._

If he'd left him, if he'd used the permit . . . the thought made Doni feel ashamed. He knew then, if he survived to be a hundred, he could never have lived with the guilt.

The train lurched and shifted forwards. This was it, then. This was their last journey. Until now, he hadn't wanted to believe it. For the first time, he felt afraid. He stood up and pressed his face against the open slat, taking in a lungful of fresh, cold air. He was so close to freedom, it taunted him. Just the thickness of a plank of wood away. But it was useless, _useless_ to feel this way, he might as well be locked inside a cage.

The wetness of tears made him angry.

_God, what if Chatzi woke up and saw him?_

He would keep pretending until the very last minute. He couldn't afford to feel this way.

He had to stay strong for his family. He would never show he was afraid. For the sake of his little brother, and the sacred promise he'd made.

_But it wasn't fair_. None of this was fair.

_Why had God and the whole world forsaken them? _

He was twelve years old and smart and strong. He didn't want to – he wasn't ready to die.

He wanted to stay alive just to fight them. At that second, he could have killed every German. He wanted - _he wanted so many things_ - so much food, he could eat until he burst. He would practise smoking like Bogart, the cigarette hanging off the corner of his mouth. And then, when he was rich, and as tough as could be, he and Chatzi would become famous gangsters.

It wasn't going to happen. Doni knew that now. _It was over, all of it, over._ There was no food, no second chances. No way of fighting back. All there was now, was him and Chatzi. In the end, he hadn't broken his promise.

The train had picked up speed now and was on its way out of the city. Doni watched the buildings grow sparser as the bombed streets and suburbs rolled by. Soon, they were out in the countryside and trees lined the edge of the cinder tracks. Most of them were twiggy and barren of leaves, their jagged branches scraping the sky.

_It felt like winter had lasted forever, but this time, there would be no spring._

And, then, like a benison, he saw it. The sight took his breath away. A cherry tree covered in blossom, swaying over the side of the track. _Cherry blossom, his mother's favourite._ Doni felt as though he was choking. His eyes clung onto to it greedily, as the cattle-trucks rolled by.

It was as pale and beautiful as a dancer. As lovely as a bride in the morning.

_Spring_.

It was spring, and he had seen it.

_So close, that if he reached out his hand . . . _

_**TBC**_

****

* * *

**_NB -_** _The Warsaw Ghetto was finally cleared out in the late spring/early summer of 1943, after a winter of intense Aktions by the Germans, in which all the remaining inhabitants who hadn't succumbed to either typhus or starvation, were transported mainly to Auschwitz. _

_The Uprising started in April and lasted until June. A few ghetto fighters escaped through the sewers to join partisan groups on the Aryan side. Most fought to the death. _

_In the end, even those with work permits were shipped to the camps, and either gassed, or sent to work until they dropped, in the huge IG Farben factories at Auschwitz III. _

_As a rule, all children under the age of fourteen were sent straight to the gas chambers upon arrival at Auschwitz Birkenau (the killing centre at Auschwitz II.) Some would have been selected by Mengele for medical experimentation. _

_Lisa._

* * *


	7. Chapter 7

_**

* * *

Thank you all so much for your thoughts and reviews on the previous chapter. The response was a relief, and overwhelming. Everything gets back to the present day now, as Don tries to reconcile his thoughts and fears. **_

****

**_Lisa._**

_**

* * *

**_

_**Z is for Zyklon B**_

* * *

_O, Earth, cover not thou my blood,_

_And let my cry have no resting place._

Job 16:18

* * *

_**Part Seven**_

_Couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe._

Don awoke with a sudden jerk, his heart thudding with adrenalin and terror. For a moment, he was confused and disorientated, and then he realised he was lying on the sofa. He forced himself to take a shaky breath, and then winced, at the painful constriction. The afghan had wriggled up when he turned in his sleep, and wrapped itself too tightly around his chest.

He'd been dreaming in black and white again. A scrambled nightmare of disjointed visions. It was like watching an old _Pathe _news reel, the images indistinct and blurred. Don waited for the present to re-establish itself, and ran a shaky hand trough his hair. He wished he could say the same about their effect, but the impact was pretty tough to come to terms with. The pictures might be grainy and hard to distinguish, but the emotional residue still hurt.

By now, the dreams were horribly predictable. Variations on much the same theme. He was trapped in a seething mass of humanity, packed in and struggling for air. There was a feeling of panic and utter despair, as he fought and clawed his way to the surface. Bodies tangled on top of other bodies, and stricken lungs burning for air.

He'd been having these dreams since he got home from the hospital, his sleep patterns broken and disturbed. It was reaching a stage where he felt sick and apprehensive when the clock hands ticked around towards bedtime. They were there, just waiting for him. Their hands reaching to pull him over the threshold. Out of reach, on the periphery of his vision. The pictures, the almost tactile sensations, every damned time he closed his eyes.

_A combination of pain and medication._

_Yeah, right, just who was he kidding?_

He pushed back the rug with a shaking hand, and waited for his heart-rate to settle. It wouldn't do to have dad or Charlie come waltzing in and find him like this. The breathlessness, the lack of air; it must be something to do with the pneumothorax. No wonder he'd found it so hard to breathe after Meathead had stomped on his chest.

A collapsed lung and five broken ribs.

_It was a good thing he hadn't realised at the time._

The doctors had muttered and shaken their heads. Dad and Charlie had been wrung out with worry. So, maybe no one had come right out and said it, but he got the message; _he was lucky to be alive._ And then, there was the fractured cheekbone; it explained why he'd felt so lop-sided. Fingers crossed, it would heal up symetrically, and he wouldn't need any reconstructive surgery. He reached up and touched the side of his face. The swelling and puffiness was abating. He was feeling a little less like Frankenstein's monster, as the bruises slowly faded away.

_Fingers crossed,_ he repeated the words to himself._ These days, he was grateful for small mercies._ The threat of going back to the hospital - he couldn't bear to contemplate the thought of it. He was out, and he intended to stay out.

_It was time to get on with his life._

And as for the dreams?

To be expected.

_They were wholly to be expected._ It wasn't just his ribs that had been stomped on, his poor head had felt the brunt of those boots, too. _Oh yeah, Meat and his little friend Jay had been generous, they'd really done a number on him. _They'd thrown in a grade three concussion for free, just to add a little spice to the mix. Don would have laughed if it didn't hurt too much. He sounded like a recipe for cholent. No wonder he was still off in cloud cuckoo-land, he was a few brain-cells short of the mix.

_Well, that was the logical conclusion, of course_.

He was usually nothing if not logical.

It came of growing up with a genius, and being surrounded by geeks.

But the truth was, the images haunted him. The lost faces seemed to obsess him. He'd been back on the web site, again and again, just to re-read their tragic stories. It had zero to do with his and Erika's ordeal, and nothing to do with his research. He was _not_ having retro-premonitionary dreams, and there was no such thing as race memory.

_He was losing the plot. _Don scoffed at himself. Too much Demerol had scrambled his brain cells. Easier by far, to blame it all on the drugs and too vivid an imagination. Or perhaps, it was the lack of oxygen. Maybe he'd offed a few too many brain cells?

_What was it dad had said to him?_

'_Don't allow yourself to get too bogged down in this son. The truth of it will only hurt you.' _

And score one for dad. The truth _had_ hurt him. They were legitimate words of wisdom, in hindsight. In a way, he wished he'd taken more notice; been an ostrich, kept his head in the sand. Who was had said that, _'with knowledge comes pain?'_ He had a feeling the quote came from the bible. All his reading and research on the Holocaust? It had forced him to acknowledge a few things.

_Who he was, where he came from. _

_He could no longer deny it was a part of him. _

An emotional response, or a genetic tug. Why bother to analyse it? At the end of the day, he was Jewish, and he wanted to find out more. For the first time in his entire life, he was interested in exploring his heritage. In retracing their steps back to Europe, and digging into the family tree. It wasn't something he felt all that comfortable with. It was all such a long time ago. Was there really much point stirring up long dead ashes, or raking over burned out coals?

As for him, Don wondered at his motives; why he felt so strongely about doing this. He was pretty much the archetypal, all-American boy. This was home, here in California. He had grown an Angelino. He was totally immersed in US culture, and had been, all of his life. He was an ex-baseball player, for God's sake, who now worked for the Federal Government. You couldn't get much more home-grown than that - as American as mom's apple pie.

Except that mom's apple pie contained cinnamon. Was what it with Jews and spices? The very scent reminded him of childhood. They were a staple of Jewish life and cuisine.

He was wandering, getting off-track again.

_Another side-effect of the head injury._

All those long-ago people in Poland and Europe, they had nothing in common with him.

And yet, perversely, he knew they did.

_They had nothing and everything._

There'd been the doctors and wealthy industrialists who'd really thought they were immune to persecution. They'd rubbed shoulders with Yiddish-speaking peasants, and the poorest of ghetto Jews. Decorated First World War veterans, who'd earned combat medals fighting for Germany. The artists and musicians from Vienna and Paris, who'd hoped and prayed the arts would triumph over all. Bakers and beggars, poets and thieves. Bank clerks and society divas. Citizenship and status, wealth and talent - in the end, none of it mattered.

_It all boiled down to an accident of birth, as they were herded to the gas, side by side._

A thin film of sweat broke out on Don's brow. If he was honest, this was what scared him. That the house of cards had come tumbling down, and the surface veneer was so thin. Underneath, was a dark and twisted world, full of hatred and infinite evil. It had not taken much to fracture the shell and break through to the skull beneath the skin.

Those people were like him and his family. They'd thought they were part of the fabric. They'd lived and worked in a modern society where such wickedness was almost unthinkable. They'd driven cars, and gone to the movies, watched their children play in the parks. Lived their lives and made plans for the future. A future most would never have.

_They could have worked in law enforcement. _

_Or maybe, been civil engineers. _

_Even prize-winning, mathematicians, or their quirky, physicist friends. _

It had taken a run-in with Meathead and his twisted ideology to underline it.

_However secular or integrated – once a Jew, always a Jew. _

The door banged, and Don jumped out of his reverie. He was heartily glad of the intrusion. For once, he hadn't heard the key in the lock, he'd been so wrapped up in his thoughts.

"Hey, Don," Charlie staggered into the hallway, weighed under by a pile of books. He looked about for somewhere to offload them, and let them slide into a heap on the round table. "Feels like I brought home half a library. Most of these come from Larry's office. I swear, he's getting worse instead of better. Would you believe he's feeling overburdened by possessions, and casting off his worldy goods again?"

Don mumbled something he hoped was appropriate. He felt a brief flash of sympathy for Megan. Crazy monk-man could cast off what the hell he liked, so long as it didn't include her. And talking of casting things aside, maybe he should take a few hints from Larry. It was time to shake off his depression and put all this despondency behind him.

Charlie was flexing and rotating his shoulders. The pile of books had clearly been heavy. Don watched him tilt his head to one side, as he unwound an orange scarf from around his neck. He smiled a little, and shook his head. _Orange - only his brother would wear orange._ It was strange, but he still felt a rush of relief whenever dad or Charlie walked in through the door. Some of the residue tension drained away from him, as though a weight had been lifted off his back. It was pathetic, he could only truly relax, once he saw they were safe with his own eyes.

Usually, when he was sick or injured, he was happiest being alone. He liked to go to ground like an animal, and not infilict his misery on the rest of the world. _But not this time_ - not since getting home this time. He was surprised at how vulnerable he'd been feeling. Even though he sat and drowsed most of the hours away, it was mighty comforting to know dad and Charlie were close by.

He knew why, of course. Didn't have to be a genius. It was the old, protective streak again. He'd seen up close and personal what could happen. It was a dangerous place out there.

"Are you okay, how are you feeling?" Charlie paused on his way through to the kitchen, and stared at Don a little more closely. "You don't exactly look very comfortable – are your ribs troubling you again?"

"A little."

_If only you knew. _Don did his best to effect a nonchalant shrug, and then discovered the error of his ways. He swung his legs around off the sofa, and sat very still. By now, you'd think he'd be used to the pain. He could cope if he made like a statue. He took a very cautious breath through his nose.

"I took a nap, and must have slipped down some. The damned Afghan got wrapped around my chest."

"Must be time for some painkillers. Let me fetch you a glass of water."

"It's okay, just give me a minute."

He was tired of dosing up on analgesia. The damn things always scrambled his brain. And besides, within an hour of taking them, he'd probably end up dozing off again. Nope – _no more with the heavy duty painkillers _– or, not until proper bedtime, at least.

"You sure?" Charlie cocked his head, and frowned at him. He didn't appear to be fooled for a second. In-fact, he looked pretty sceptical and more than a little pissed off. "Don, you had a pneumothorax. Those thugs goose-stepped all over your ribcage, and made a mosaic out of your bones."

_Gee, Chuck, thanks for the visual._ Don couldn't help wincing at the imagery.

"Charlie - "

"You heard what they said back at the hospital, but just in case of wilful deafness, I can repeat it. You should do regular sets of deep breathing exercises, in order to expand your damaged lung. You're not going to be able to do that, if you can't even sit up straight. The doctors were pretty insistent you keep taking adequate analgesia."

"I know," Don gave a sigh of resignation. He repeated the words again for good measure. "_It's okay,_ you don't have to sweat it. I think I can remember to keep breathing."

"Well, that's good, I'm glad to hear it," Charlie's voice was loaded with sarcasm, "because, for a while there, after your lung collapsed, you sure looked like you'd forgotten how. In fact, now I come to think of it, the ventilator was breathing for you. You know, that big machine you were hooked up to, the one in the ICU?"

_Touché._

As ripostes went, it was deftly done. To be fair, he had to hand it to Charlie. And, as for him – well, he'd walked right into the trap. _Fallen for it, hook, line and sinker._ In a way, it confirmed what he already knew. It was all the vindincation he needed. Proof positive the painkillers _must_ be making him fuzzy if he couldn't wisecrack back at Charlie.

"Nice one," he shook his head, and took a deep breath for emphasis – or as deep as his ribcage would allow. "Talk about a low blow. Way to go, Chuck, get all those hits in now. Why not stomp on a guy when he's down?"

"Hey," Charlie slung over his shoulder, as he carried on through to the kitchen. "Thanks for the reverse compliment, _I think,_ but again, you can count me out on that score. That's why we're here in the first place. You already got stomped on enough."

Don grinned, he couldn't help it. He was wise enough to know when he'd been outsmarted. Charlie had him again, not once, _but twice,_ and there was nothing else to do but suck it up. He was reaching across for the remote control when Charlie came back into the living room. He was carrying a glass of water and a box of Tylenol in his hands.

"Here – you'd better take two of these." He popped two pills out of the packet. "Tylenol won't scramble your brains. At least no more than they're already scrambled."

"Thanks."

Don ignored the jibe, and did as he was told. _Was he really that transparent?_ He took the glass and swallowed down the painkillers with an outward show of grace. This round had gone to Charlie, and for now, he was well and truly beaten. And besides, if he was being honest, he was still in a fair amount of pain.

"What's this?" Charlie picked up a book from the pile next to the couch, and quoted the title out loud. "Lucy Dawidowicz, _'The War against the Jews 1933-1945.'_" He raised an eyebrow, "not exactly light reading."

"It's one of dad's books," Don was sober. "_He thought_ - I borrowed it from him. He's been doing a little research, ever since – you know, the Pisarro case."

"From the looks of things, he's not the only one." Charlie flicked through a couple of pages, his forehead puckering up even further. "Don, are you sure you should be reading this, especially in light of what just happened?"

"Yeah, I think I should be reading this. Most _definitely,_ in light of what just happened."

"Okay," Charlie looked at him, carefully. "Is this something you'd like to talk about, or knowing you, is that a stupid question? On the otherhand, I could do the usual thing, take a hint, and head out for the garage?"

Don bit his lip. The subject wasn't exactly taboo, and besides, it was hardly a big secret. He and Charlie had talked it over before, at least one time, to his certain knowledge. He carefully heaved himself up a little further, until the pressure eased off his ribcage. It was going to be one hell of a day when he could actually move an inch without pain.

Charlie sighed, but refrained from saying a word. Wisdom clearly came with experience. He leaned forward from his end of the sofa, and slipped a cushion in behind Don's back.

"Thanks," Don was touched by the small gesture. Sometimes, when he least expected it, Charlie would take him by surprise like this. He cleared his throat, and waved his hand towards the book. "There's no need to hole up in the garage, and no reason why we shouldn't talk about it. I guess, up until now, we've been lucky. We've never come across anything too bad."

"Not _too_ bad," Charlie agreed with him, and then ruefully touched the tip of his nose. "Although, I have received one or two, um . . . what you might call negative comments. After all, our heritage is hardly unnoticeable when you happen to look like we do."

"Speak for yourself," Don gave him a half-smile. "I was blessed with mom's perfect, straight nose."

"Yeah, right," Charlie raised his eyebrows, and ignored the inference, "but there's no mistaking your origins. Not really, if you examine it objectively. Let's start with your skin, could it be any paler, in comparison to your hair and eyes? You happen to look like exactly what you are, Don, and it definitely isn't a Nazi poster boy."

"I suppose."

_Was Charlie right?_

He'd never considered it. _Not really, not until this had happened._ It was as if things had become much sharper. Sliced apart by a thin ray of light. He was lost in thought for a moment, as he remembered some of Meat's choicer insults. He'd never defined himself as Jewish before, and they'd come as quite a nasty revelation.

"Earth to Eppes," Charlie sounded uncertain. "This probably isn't easy, but you haven't told us exactly what happened. I don't mean the facts, we know all about those. I was talking about the stuff in-between?"

"Probably better to leave it alone." Don lowered his eyes abruptly.

"Those skin-heads, they were neo-Nazis. They must have said some disgusting things?"

"Charlie, _I said_ leave it alone."

"It doesn't take much working out," Charlie continued, as though he hadn't spoken. "What they did to you and Erika was awful, but it wasn't _just_ a physical assault. They must have said some vicious things. Used anti-Semitic and abusive insults. Sean Travis had several, previous convictions, for aggravated racial assault. After hearing Erika's account of what happened, I hate to say it, but I'm glad the man's dead."

"Look - " out of habit, Don pinched the bridge of his nose. _The perfectly straight nose he'd inherited from mom._ " - there's no point raking it all up again. Suffice to say, they weren't exactly polite. Guys like that – well, they're pretty pathetic. A sick bunch of losers and sociopaths, who get their rocks off by that sort of thing."

"Very true," Charlie nodded in agreement. "You only need look at the Nazi Party. Adolf Hitler surrounded himself with acolytes who fit that particular picture to a tee. The trouble was, back then in the twenties and thirties, a specific convergence evolved. A very rare and exact set of factors, which gave those men and their ideas the chance to flourish. Social, occasional, economic and political – they all came together at the same time. All it took was a certain individual to fan the spark, and _whoosh,_ it started the fire."

"Adolf Hitler."

"Yes," Charlie was on a roll now, they were treading on safer ground. Far easier to talk in generic terms, it was better like this, less personal. "If you subtract one or two of the variables, then the convergence theory loses its integrity. If you don't strike a match and light the kindling, there's no fire, just a pile of wood. Remove one, _just one,_ factor from the equation, and who knows, the whole thing would have changed. The history of the world as we know it? It would be very different today."

"In other words, remove the _whoosh_ factor. Wrong person, wrong time, and wrong place. They all came together, head to head. You know, Adolf Hitler fought in the First World War, maybe if he'd been killed in the trenches . . . "

"Or, if the Russian revolution hadn't happened, and created such a fear of communism. It made fascism seem like the only alternative in certain parts of Europe at that time." Charlie shrugged. "There are so many _what ifs_ and _if onlys,_ and not all of them are bad. For instance, you brought up the First World War, and for a while, Churchill fought in the trenches. Imagine the outcome of the Second World War, if he'd been killed or disabled out there?"

"No Battle of Britain, no D-Day." By now, Don really knew his history. "No allied halt to German domination of Europe, and the United States the next stop to the West."

_'So many what ifs and if onlys, and not all of them bad.'_

Charlie's words seemed to clarify matters, as he went over what happened at Erika's. If he hadn't gone around to dinner that night, then surely she would have died? On the other hand, Shoemaker would still be alive, but in the end, there was no gainsaying history. No one had invented a time machine yet, (_unless Larry and Charlie were keeping dark secrets) _heaven knows, Don wouldn't put it past them. If anyone was going to do an HG Wells - Charlie and Larry were the men for the job.

_But in reality, the past was set in stone._

No one could change what had happened.

In the end, Peyton Shoemaker had done the decent thing. He'd saved Don's life, and probably Erika's too. But, even now, it was pretty disquieting to realise how much influence the past still wielded. How the threads reached and entwined into the future, and the corollary they had on all their lives.

_One family's search for justice had culminated in the return of a painting. _

_Another family's loss of said painting had resulted in a tragic waste of life. _

Don recalled something Larry had mentioned to him, just after the fake Pissarro was stolen. The artist had painted street scenes from the safety of the roof-tops above. It had resulted in some wonderful paintings, but the reasoning had not been artistic. He'd done it to avoid the anti-Semitism which was rife on the Parisien streets below. In away, it was strangely prophetic. The irony didn't escape him. Both artist and painting were aptly symbolic of the struggle they'd later come to represent.

Don wondered what Erika's father would have thought, if he'd had any kind of inkling. Who could have known, when he'd purchased the picture, it would become such an emblem of survival?

Back to Charlie's _what ifs_ and _if onlys._ There was no point even going there.

"You know," Charlie mused, "it could have been us. Could so easily have been our branch of the family. What if, back at the turn of the century, great grandfather Eppes had decided to stay?"

"Yeah, I know. It doesn't bear thinking about. _There, but for the grace of God, go I_." Don paused, then indicated the pile of books. "A while ago, I made dad a promise - I guess the Pissarro case sparked it - to see if I could use some of my contacts to find out what happened to our family. And that explains the reading matter, I guess. In a way, we owe it to them. I want to learn as much as I can about those people and their lives."

"And did you? I mean, did you find anything out?"

"Not yet, but I'm pretty hopeful. I have a friend over in Israel who has access to the archives there."

"What you said earlier, we _have_ been lucky."

Charlie's voice was hardly more than a whisper, and Don knew he meant more than historically. In the scheme of things, he knew he and Erika _had_ been, very little short of blessed. To escape from that ugly mess with their lives; he felt like someone had been watching out for them. A sway to the left, a roll of the dice. It had so nearly ended in oblivion.

"Yeah, buddy, pretty lucky."

The Pissarro case had changed him profoundly. It was definite and frankly, undeniable. A secret door had unlocked inside him, and made him more aware of who he was. Those people, the faces on the Yad Vashem pages, Don knew he would never forget them. He would pay them the private tribute of memory. _At the very least, he owed them that._

He looked over at Charlie with affection and love, and a certain amount of realisation. However much he learned, and whatever he found out; this was _his_ time and place – bang in the present. He had his own, important role to play, rooted firmly in the here and now.

'_Family is our anchor to life – we lose it and we're adrift.'_

Erika's words came back to haunt him again. They were beautiful – so poignant and sad.

Don gave thanks for his very own anchors.

_He gave thanks for Charlie and dad._

**_TBC_**

* * *


	8. Chapter 8

_**

* * *

Okay, so here's the last chapter, but there may yet be more to this story. I'm writing something else at the moment, but I do have a sequel in mind. It's been a real labour of love, but quite difficult to write in places. Thank you so much for taking time to read and review, and coming along for the ride. **_

Lisa.

_**

* * *

Z is for Zyklon B **_

* * *

_O, Earth, cover not thou my blood,_

_And let my cry have no resting place._

Job 16:18

* * *

_**Part Eight - Epilogue**_

The first thing he noticed was the blue Persian rug. _Or rather, the conspicuous lack of it._ Next to the new oak coffee table, there was an exotic gold and turquoise kilim. It didn't really come as that much of a shock, he'd pretty much bled out all over it. He remembered thinking it right at the time; _those damned blood stains were never coming out._ He stood there and pondered for a moment; it was weird, because he'd gotten kind of fond of that rug. In a way, it had become a talisman. Something for him to focus on, while the world crashed and burned around his ears.

Don took a careful breath, and paused for a second, as a slew of memories assaulted him. He hadn't thought returning would be so hard.

_He'd believed he was tougher than this._

"Don?"

Erika had followed him into the room, and tracked the direction of his gaze. She linked her open arm through his, and quickly steered him across to the sofa. It too, had been recovered in a brand new fabric, a dramatic, _Liberty-style_, chintz.

"Sit," she commanded him, softly. "Here, let me give you some more cushions – we need to take extra care of you - to pay special attention to those ribs. Perhaps it was too soon for you to come here? You know, Joel could have driven me to Pasadena."

"No, it's good. _I'm good,"_ Don amended. "It's nice to feel like a normal person again. Besides, I haven't seen you in quite a while – not since I was still in the hospital."

"Your poor family, we were so afraid for you," Erika touched his cheek briefly, and there was a glimmer of tears in her eyes. "It was a hard time then, you were so desperately ill, when they fixed you up to that machine. _Gvald geshrign,_ all the beatings, what those men, _those monsters_ did to you. There were so many cuts and bruises, we could barely see your handsome face."

"It's over. They've pretty much faded now. I'm just happy to be back here again."

And I did say I still owed you some cholent," she smiled. "I hope your appetite has returned?"

"Yeah," Don gestured out through the open French windows to where Alan and Charlie could be seen talking to Joel. "I told dad how delicious it is, and he's really been looking forward to it. You know, he fancies himself as a bit of a chef - I think he's planning on taking notes."

_Why the hell were they making small-talk? _

Don looked at her, and dropped the pretence. She was hurting, he could tell she was. He only needed to glance around him. The proof was staring him right in the face. The made-over lounge and the bright new kilim – they were just ways of erasing the evidence. It was a valiant attempt at bravado, but it didn't help him feel any less guilty.

He reached for her hand and enclosed it in his. Both of them were trembing just a little. It was the first time they'd been alone in this room since the night when the storm had broken.

"How are you doing, sweetie?"

"Truly?" She hesitated, and her voice cracked a little. "Much better, since we knew you would recover. But here we are, thanks to the grace of God, and I'm very thankful to be alive. Oh, you know," she gave a shaky laugh, "still a little frayed around the edges, but when I think of what _could _have happened, there's so much to be grateful for. "

"I'm sorry."

Don was filled with a deep regret. He didn't have the strength to meet her eyes. He looked down at the hand he was holding in his, and even now, he could see the blood on it. He still found it hard to come to terms with. _It was_ _his fault, he had let her down._ For all her abhorrence of violent behaviour, she had been forced to kill a man because of him.

"Don't be sorry, you have nothing to be sorry for," Erika spoke quite sharply. "Don, please, I want you to listen to me, like I said to you that day, there was no choice. You're my dear friend, and you saved my life. I couldn't let him hurt you anymore."

"I just wish things had worked out differently." _Looking back, he would do anything to change it._ "I hate what you had to do. I hate that I couldn't stop them from saying those things, from violating and abusing you."

She was silent for a minute - _they both were_ - drawing comfort from the other's close proximity. In the end, regardless of all the support and sympathy, they were the only ones who truly understood. Don looked across to the patio doors and watched his family through the large glass windows. Both Charlie and dad had been terrific with him - they'd really done their level best to help him out. They hadn't pressed him too hard or tried to get him to talk, and for that mercy, he'd been very grateful.

He needed time to come to terms with had happened, and to their credit, they'd shown remarkable patience. Not easy for either one of them, but they must have sensed he required the space. He'd spoken about it to both of them. Let it out, in bite-sized snatches. In carefully planned portions, just a piece at a time, like the talk he'd had with Charlie that day.

He wasn't being insensitive, or deliberately obtuse, it was the only way he managed to cope.

_The reason why?_

_Hell, he wasn't Larry. He wasn't a sociologist or a philosopher._

It wasn't his job to dream up the rules, he was only here to enforce them.

_Again, why?_

He'd gone over it so many times in his head, round and round, like a dog chasing his tail. There were so many proffered explanations, some of them less palatable than others. He couldn't comprehend all the hatred. He didn't really think he'd ever understand it. Such a distorted way of looking at your fellow man - there was no way he could _ever_ truly see.

_And him?_

Well, he knew life was fragile, but in a way he'd never realised before. Scratch the surface, lift up the lid of the box, and you might release the evil locked inside.

_And the moth called Hope?_

He prayed it was there.

It was there, or what the hell was the point?

As for Erika, she was naturally gracious. Don found it hard to believe what she was saying. Her justification was both generous and plausible, but nonetheless, he was filled with sorrow. He gave a heavy sigh, and then flinched in discomfort, as his still-tender ribs hitched and hurt. You'd think, that by now, he would remember. _The stupid things always caught him unawares._ It would take a while for the physical effects to wear off; the doctors had warned him to be cautious. He had some way to go before they'd sign him back on. Along time before he went back to work.

"Be careful," Erika regarded him with some concern, then she swallowed, and began to speak in a low voice. It was as though she'd been thinking intensely, working out, weighing up what to say. "Don, I want you to listen to me, to listen hard, and to stop feeling guilty."

"Erika - " _If only he could._ It was easier said, than done.

"No, I said _listen,"_ she shook her head, as though he was a naughty child, and refused to let him continue. "What happened – all those years ago, I couldn't save my family from the Nazi's. They were taken away, right in front of my eyes, and there was _nothing_, not a damned thing I could do. But when those thugs came here, to my house,_ this_ time, I was faced with an option. I had a clear decision, a choice to make. I had a chance to save a dear friend from _a Nazi._ I couldn't let them take you from me, Don. _I chose not to let my friend die_."

Don felt his heart give a sudden flip. For a moment, the room blurred around him. He felt reassured and enormously humbled, her words moved him more than he could say. They didn't take away the guilt entirely, but he had to admit, they eased the pain. Yet again, it occurred to him, that this was one, special lady. He lifted her hand gently up to his lips and planted a kiss on the back of it. There was no doubt, if it wasn't for Erika, he most definitely would not be alive.

"Thank you."

It seemed too brief, so inadequate, but there was a treasure trove's worth of hidden meaning. Whatever happened, however his life panned out, there would always be a unique bond between them.

_A special link which could never be broken._

"Hush, now, we'll hear no more about it. I just thank God we're both alive."

He watched her reach for a handkerchief, as a single tear rolled down her cheek. She gave a watery sniff, and dabbed at her eyes. They strayed across to the fake Pissarro.

"Do you remember what I said the first time we met?" She sounded sad, and slightly pensive. "I used to wonder why God chose to spare me. Why I alone, walked away from that charnel house, when the rest of my poor family died. Was there was some meaning, some grand design, that I was too blind, too stupid to realise? And, all the time, I was getting older. Any chance I _might_ have had to do some real good, it was going to waste, as the years slipped by."

"No," Don hastened to reassure her. "God, no, you should never think that. It's survivor guilt, and I've seen it before. It's pretty common in my line of work."

"Thank you, Don, I know that now." she gave him the glimmer of a smile. "It's taken too many years to understand why – too many tears, to comprehend there_ is_ no reason. And you know, it all started changing, the day _you _walked into my life. It's strange, but getting the painting back has brought me a sense of closure. Like a terrible wound that's festered slowly for years, but at long last, I think it's started to heal. And, perversely, what happened here that night, in a way, it only helped make me stronger."

He understood, _sort of._ Or, he thought he did. No one would ever _really_ know what she'd been through. Sometimes, you had to hit rock bottom, before kicking up towards the sunlight again.

"Even so, it can't have been easy. It must have brought back some painful memories."

"Not easy, no," she shook her head. "But you know what? I felt so angry. How dared they step one foot inside my house? How dared they bully and hurt us? In-spite of the fear, they seemed so small. Such an evil, ignorant prejudice."

He'd been feeling a little angry himself, so he could sympathise entirely with her viewpoint. The attack had been a salutary lesson, both a physical and an emotional assault.

_Stick and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me. _

Whoever had written that old homily, they sure got it wrong – _big time._

Erika was staring at the picture again. "I was so happy when you returned the Pissarro. It meant more than you can ever realise. So bittersweet – both joyful and sad. After all that grief, and so many lost years, at long last, I had some form of justice."

"I was just glad to be a part of it," Don understood. "To play a small role in its return."

"It gave me a double blessing," she affirmed, "it brought you into my life. Without your strength and protection, I would not have survived that night. I was lucky - perhaps we both were. Life is so precious, we must make the most of it. I still have some time left, God willing, I have my family and some very dear friends. That's why I know I'm right about this, I've decided to sell the Pissarro. Instead of a legacy of evil, the money will help create something good."

"Sell the painting?" Don blinked, and looked up in surprise. He really hadn't expected this, but on the other hand, maybe he should have. "Erika, you love that picture so much. Your family, all your childhood memories - "

"Yes, I _do_ love the painting, but," and she tapped her forehead. "Those memories, they've been in here, all the time. I was too desolate, too angry to see them. It was safer to hide, to bury them deep. That way, I would not get hurt." She sighed; "in the end, it was justice I sought, to get past my own sense of hatred. That, plus a little honesty, to acknowledge the way I really felt. I needed a key to unlock the door, and _you_ returned it to me."

"The Pissarro?"

"_Ja_, it was the Pissarro. It forced me to face the truth. To see it again, after all these years, was like stepping through a gateway to the past. The good memories are worth their weight in gold. Nothing - not even my own bitterness, will ever steal them from me again. As long as I have my copy of the painting, it will always be enough to evoke them."

"Are you sure?" Don looked at her, doubtfully. "I know the insurance restrictions are stringent, but you fought so long and hard to get it back. To sell now, after all this time. Somehow, it just doesn't seem fair."

"Yes, I'm sure." Erika gave a decisive nod, "and, in away, it's almost a relief. What's the point of owning something so beautiful and rare, if it's hidden out of sight, in a dusty bank vault? Both the painting _and_ its story should be out on display, somewhere safe, for the whole world to see."

"And the money, if you don't mind me asking? I mean, it's none of my business . . . "

"Of course it's your business," she was indignant. "If not yours, then whose could it be? Considering you saved both me _and_ the painting, you have every right to know. I plan to finance a paediatric MRI unit – to salvage something good out of the ashes. They're going to call it the Hellman Centre, in honour and remembrance of my family. Something with the potential to save children's lives?" Her eyes shone with unshed tears. "I can't think of a more fitting testimonial, or a way of paying tribute to their memory."

"Well, it's wonderful, I think it's pretty wonderful."

Don swallowed hard, and the room spun away from him. He was drowning, sinking down through his dreams. He felt light-headed, and something shifted. He had an image of all those lost faces. So many - _too many_ had been children. _A breath of hope - never seen again._ But this, a paediatric unit. _A phoenix rising out of the ashes._ It gave him a strange feeling of solace, and in a way, helped to heal some of his pain.

"There's something else," she linked her arm through his, being careful not to jolt against his ribcage. Her eyes sparkled, and he caught a haunting glimpse of the lovely girl she'd once been. "Joel's taking me to Paris. He's booked us some first class tickets, and we're flying out in the spring. I want to stroll along romantic boulevards, just like the one's in the painting. See the foaming chestnuts in blossom, and drink good wine at a street café. I plan to do all those touristy, clichéd things, my father once promised me."

"I remember," Don's voice was soft. "Just like the scene in the painting. He never got the chance to take you there. You thought you would never see it."

"I should have done it a very long time ago. All these years, one thing stopped me from going. In a way, my own grief and bitterness, the sense of burning injustice. But, you saved me, Don - you and the painting, and that's why I can never repay you. Ever since you returned the Pissarro to me, the corrosive anger has gone."

"I'm so glad."

He was feeling pretty choked up himself. For once, he didn't blame it on the demerol. It was a wonderful and terrible story, a painful mixture of both happy and sad. He felt like a piece of puzzle, a humble part of some gigantic cosmic jigsaw. In a small way, he'd helped to complete it; had contributed to the whole.

Just knowing Erika filled him with pride.

This woman, his friend, was a survivor.

_And, in a small way,_ he supposed, _he was too._

There'd been times – _quite a few of them lately_ – when he'd queried his ability to make it. Not just dodging the bullets, both real and metaphorical, but preserving his sanity, as well.

There'd been _those_ times – but there were also_ these_ times.

_Times,_ he realised, _that the whole thing was worth it._

When it all came together, and the kinks ironed out. Both the good and the bad.

Times, he could stand up, and do what was right - when he knew he made some sort of difference. To give thanks for his friends and loved ones, and _still_ see some hope left in the world. Ever since this whole incident had started, he'd been feeling a little shaky. _It might have been a damned sight easier just to leave the entire thing alone. _It had changed him, no doubt about it, and raised a monster glut of tricky questions. But never once, did he regret ripping open the lid, and peering down into the can.

_If only, he could get past the worms._

By now, dad had come in from the garden, and followed Erika out to the kitchen. They were arguing about the ratio of spices – he could hear them laughing over it from here. Don smiled a little, and shook his head. _He knew exactly what the old man was up to._ Sometimes, dad was just like a bloodhound, single-minded in pursuit of his prey. He was on the trail of Erika's secret recipe, but right now, Don was betting against him.

_After all, when it cut straight down to the chase, he knew how tough Erika could be, _

He was just debating whether or not to join them, when his cell began to buzz against his hip. _And talking of times,_ this was strangely apt. An example of his earlier reasoning. He pulled the cell phone out of it's holder, and gave it a derisive glare.

_How many times had he needed it, e__ven prayed for it to work, that fateful night?_

Yet, today, when he wanted to be left in peace, bet your life, there was an excellent signal. He shook his head at the many vagaries of fate, and opened up the in-coming text message.

"Anything important?"

Charlie walked in through the French windows, and raised an inquiring eyebrow. He waited, and hovered on the threshold, when he saw the strange expression on Don's face.

"Don?"

"It's from that friend of mine I told you about, the guy I know out in Israel. Apparently, he's coming over here next week, on some sort of government assignment. He wants to meet up with me urgently. _He says he has some news about our family."_

_**THE END**_

_**Zachor – (**Remember, and tell others** - )**_

_**Lisa Paris – 2008**_

* * *

**_Dedicated to my grandmother's family._**

* * *


End file.
